


And Ashes Fell From The Sky...

by 2momsmakearight, PiecesOfScully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Adventure, Angst, F/M, Romance, Season 11, novel-length, post-col
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 88,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2momsmakearight/pseuds/2momsmakearight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiecesOfScully/pseuds/PiecesOfScully
Summary: Over the years, his dreams had slowly mutated from Samantha’s abduction to visions of Them taking Scully. For over twelve years when the moon was at its highest, she was his stability, his guard from the horrors that haunted him each time his eyes closed. Now, as he sits in the car on this bridge, watching helplessly as the craft hovers above the only woman he’s ever truly loved, he can only hope and pray that whatever they do to her, they’ll do the same to him because the physical pain from their brutal instruments is nothing compared to the emotional pain of her absence – or of his failure to save her.His world is nothing without her in it. He resolved himself to that a long time ago.





	1. PAST AND PRESENT

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to @bohoartist for betaing this monster. This is our gift to the fandom. 
> 
> EACH CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED ON SUNDAYS AT 9:00PM EST (SOUND FAMILIAR?)

CHAPTER 1

Cars sit bumper to bumper along the two-way road that leads to the bridge. The night ahead of them is flooded with a sea of red lights, glowing and flickering as the cluster of drivers tap on their brakes to scoot ahead inch by inch. For miles and miles, horns blare angrily as fearful motorists do all they can to move. Gridlock enslaves the city and it’s outskirts as everyone attempts to evacuate, all too fearful of being the next victim, the next target.

The weathered truck sits idly and its headlights reflect off the car only inches from his front bumper. Years of being parked under the hot sun has aged the blue paint of the truck’s hood, oxidizing and chipping the once vibrant color, leaving it stripped bare and dull before its time. As the owner of the truck scratches his thick and prickly beard that was quickly becoming more gray than brown, he smirks to himself that his beloved truck isn’t the only thing aging prematurely. He lifts his chin to look in the rearview mirror, and his blue eyes stare back at him, their edges lined and wrinkled from harsh living conditions under the sun. When did he get so fucking old?

“This will be our final broadcast before we head off air here in a sec--” a shaky voice speaks to them from the speakers. “The station wants us to play a clip on a loop...something about a vaccine being made...I don’t know--” the announcer trails off, and the older man in the cab reaches forward to turn up the volume. His young passenger sits up, eyes glued to the green numbers on the small radio.

“From everyone here at KDCR, we wish everyone…,” the voice pauses, and the radio silence is dead air for seconds on end. Finally, the shaky voice returns, his message simple. “God help us.” Then nothing.

Silence fills the cab of the truck and young passenger turns to the driver with brows knitted with worry.

“Papa?” he starts, confused at the silence, but he stops short as a new voice appears.

“This is Tad O’Malley,” it says, voice roughened and wheezing through the speakers. “As we mentioned earlier, we have been told a vaccine is being made --”

“We’ve already heard this,” the old man sighs, laying his hand on the horn in frustration.

“--imperative that you remain calm and arrive at the hospital in an orderly manner. Stay away from all electronic devices as the low-level radiation emitted from these devices could be what is--”

The boy hits the button on the radio, effectively silencing the droning noise. “I can’t stand him.”

The older man snorts. “Really?”

“He’s crazy. He makes Old Mike sound normal,” he replies with a chuckle. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Old Mike has seen a lot, son. His ‘crazy’ comes from experience.”

“The man is batshit insane, and you know it, Papa.”

“Language, son,” he says, lazily chastising the boy out of duty rather than merit, but he’s right. Old Mike is crazy. At seventy years old, the old man had spent his time living outside the bounds of normalcy – living off the grid, as it were. Over years past, handfuls of people from every walk of life had joined together, following him into the damp expanse of the forest or desert in search of a simpler life. For a multitude of reasons that were only spoken in hushed tones over the popping of a campfire, this band of misfits took solace in seclusion, trading congested city streets for the rolling landscapes, and thick layers of smog for the wide open sky. They’d listen halfheartedly as he spoke of the future, a warning of what was yet to come. He might be considered crazy by society’s standards, but he was the sort of man you wanted around during a time like this. Decades of not trusting the government had taught him how to survive without society, prepping with food storage and survivalist training that could certainly be of use right now. ‘It’s not going to be a bomb or a massive terrorist attack,’ he used to say as he strutted from one camp fire to another, leaving the a scent of whiskey trailing in his wake. ‘They’ll start with the food source, or the water, maybe even a viral outbreak in populated areas.’ Over the many star-lit nights spent together, everyone had become accustomed to his rantings. 

Little did they know that Old Mike hadn’t been crazy at all, that he’d been right all along. 

The teenager winces as a pressure builds between his eyes, and he glances nervously to the man in the driver’s seat. “I know you think we shouldn’t have come,” he says softly.

The older man snorts with an incredulous shake of his head, recalling the hundreds of miles they’d spent debating and discussing just this very thing, and he turns to his passenger, meeting his eyes. “You really sure about this?” 

The boy nods, albeit shakily; as certain as he is nervous about the future. “This is different.”

“How? And why now? You’ve had these feelings before, so why is this so different?”

The teenager shakes his head, pensively looking around in search of an answer. He feels Papa’s anxiety ripple off of him in waves. All of Papa’s fears float around him in the stuffy cab of the truck, so tangible he can almost taste them. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of the sensation and swallows against the rising bile in his throat. Slow breaths, he reminds himself, and opens his eyes with a slow exhale through pursed lips. 

“It just is.”

Papa nods understandably, seeing the discomfort on his boy’s face. 

“Okay.” Papa sighs as he looks in his mirrors, craning his neck behind him to get a better look of the surrounding scene. “I think we need to get you out of here. Get away from all of these people.” He turns the wheel hard, edging closer to the car in front of them in hope of an exit, but they remain boxed in no more than mere inches to spare in either direction.

The boy rests his hand on Papa’s arm, stilling his futile attempts at escape. “I just need to get to that hospital. I need Dana Scully, just like Tad said.” 

“I know you do, buddy. I know you do. I’m doin’ the best I can here.” He grimaces when the boy groans, rubbing his temples in a slow circular motion, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“It’s like…I can…I can feel…” He sighs deeply before inhaling sharply through his nose, his eyes opening wide. He stares into the dark night in front of him. “Something’s happening.”

“What is?” 

“It’s like,” he says while tilting his head to the side, as if straining to discern something that only he can hear. “It sounds like…I-“ he stops as a rush of sharp pain forces his eyes closed. 

A shocking light abruptly floods the cab of the truck, and they both raise their hands to protect their fragile eyes.

“What the hell?” Papa’s heart pounds in his ears as he sees the source of the bright light, a craft hovering a few hundred feet in front of them, focusing a bright green light on something below it. It forces memories of his own experiences, and he can’t help the clench of his gut at the sight. 

“Do you see--?” he starts, looking beside him expecting to see the same sense of fright mirrored across his kid, but instead finds his eyes tightly closed, wincing in concentration on something only he can seem to hear. 

The vein along the boy’s temple throbs under the intensity of his thoughts, and sweat begins to bead along his forehead, sparkling under the glow of the green light. The pressure in his head is insurmountable, growing from a constant tickling in the back of his mind, to a full out war on his senses.

Papa sits stunned as he watches the boy next to him, his mind whirling with a series of questions he knows no answer. Just when he thinks to reach out and soothe the child, a trickle of blood begins to drip from his nose, a muddled brown color in the green light and nighttime darkness.

“I told you,” the boy says simply as he opens his eyes. 

“Jesus!” Papa scrambles for napkins in the glove box, and presses them to the boy’s face. Blood soaks through the flimsy paper faster than he can keep up with, but the teen doesn’t seem fazed. His eyes train towards the bright light, and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face. 

He pushes the napkins away from his face, and wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve, streaking his flannel shirt with the dark remnants. “They’re out there,” he says, unfastening his seatbelt and turning towards the car door. “I need to get closer.” He pushes the passenger door open, and leaps from the truck.

“Where are you going?!” Papa calls to him while he scrambles to undo his seatbelt, cursing obscenities under his breath as he reaches into the backseat for his rifle. He watches for a moment as the young boy weaves with determination through the stopped cars before he checks the chamber of the weapon. Locked and loaded, he pulls the keys from the ignition and hopes his middle-aged legs can catch up to the long-legged teen racing towards the light.

The boy’s legs burn with exertion as he sprints. In the nearing distance, the triangular ship continues to hover, it’s green beam illuminating the faces of those enveloped within it. Rocks and dirt shuffle beneath his dirtied sneakers as he stops abruptly just outside the edge of the light, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. 

His mind prickles with awareness. “It’s them.”

\---

The lights inside the ship glow brightly in the darkness of the night, illuminating the two uniformed men as they sit at the controls.

“Subject in our view. Advise action.”

\---

Mulder’s eyes, weak and tired from the illness threatening to consume him, slowly follow the tract of light as it settles on Scully. She appears drawn to it like the pull of a magnet, unable to turn away from it’s strength. He remembers that sensation, the loss of control, regardless of how hard you fought against its power. It takes every remaining ounce of energy in his body to lift his hand, hoping he can touch her and pull her away. Don’t look, Scully, he thinks. Don’t look at the light. Please don’t look. 

The air stills, as if time itself simply stops. Stagnant. Dust particles float around him, glittering in the light of the green orb, but in a beat the air is suddenly sour, putrid with the familiar sulfur and metallic he remembers like a bad dream. If he closes his eyes, he can still taste the iron from the drill that so cruelly bore through his palette, feel his skin ripping apart as the rotary blade slices through bone and muscle, his screams ignored.

It took him years to learn how to remember his abduction without reliving it. Years of nightmares and flashbacks so vivid he couldn’t tell what was real from imaginary, leaving him a shell of person, a shell of the man that Dana Scully had fallen in love with. But his experience was never truly his life’s nightmare.

*This* is his nightmare coming to fruition. Watching her being taken right in front of his eyes, and being powerless to stop it.

Over the years, his dreams had slowly mutated from Samantha’s abduction to visions of Them taking Scully. Upon waking with her name burning behind his lips, he would reach for her in the middle of the night, desperate for her touch to anchor him, the feeling of her presence coaxing him back into the present where everything was okay. For over twelve years when the moon was at its highest, she was his stability, his guard from the horrors that haunted him each time his eyes closed.

Now, as he sits in the car on this bridge, watching helplessly as the craft hovers above the only woman he’s ever truly loved, he can only hope and pray that whatever they do to her, they’ll do the same to him because the physical pain from their brutal instruments is nothing compared to the emotional pain of her absence – or of his failure to save her.

His world is nothing without her in it. He resolved himself to that a long time ago.

"Miller," Mulder gasps, his voice raspy. "Don’t let--- Stop her." 

Miller stares at Scully, seemingly unable to hear Mulder’s request, transfixed at the sight before him. Her small frame stands out vividly amongst the flood of headlights, and the eerily bright light washes over her in perfect precision. Powerless and entranced, she stands with her spine rigidly straight and her head tilted back, her face angled upwards.

"Scully!" Mulder croaks, then bends at his middle as a coughing fit wracks throughout his torso. She doesn't acknowledge his call. He clenches the door’s armrest, and leans forward again to try and touch her, to pull her back, but his arm falls weakly into his lap. 

He’s failing her, just as he did a year ago when he turned his head so he didn’t have to see the look on her face as she walked to their bedroom to sleep alone in their bed; when he pushed her away and let the darkness engulf him; when he watched her pack her bags and walk out of his life.

When he forced her from ‘wife’ to ‘friend and physician.’ 

“Please,” Mulder begs. “Scully, stay with me.”

Miller’s eyes finally shift, feeling the fog that had overwhelmed his mind begin to lift. He turns away from the source of light, and vaguely notices movement. A young man moves towards Agent Scully with an outstretched hand, eyes darting between the hovering craft and the woman. 

Before he can reach her, Miller’s stepped in front of her, blocking the teen’s access. “Hey, hold it right there!” Miller shouts, but his words are jumbled, fluid-like to his own ears. With arms that feel heavy as lead, he reaches for his weapon, taking a defensive stance against the unknown threat before him. 

Miller blinks hard in an effort to focus through the haze in his mind, squinting as he tightens his grip on the weapon. The teen ignores his demand, instead keeping his eyes trained on Agent Scully as he moves towards her with cautioned steps. The teen eyes his gun nervously, but ignores Miller’s attempts to halt his movement. Miller has no choice. If a tour in Iraq has taught him anything is that even children can be weapons used against them. 

“Put your hands up!” Miller yells. The fog that overwhelms his mind begins to thicken, growing more dense with each step he takes towards her, robbing him of the ability to think clearly. He blinks rapidly, trying desperately to concentrate on the task at hand, even as he feels the grip on his weapon waver. 

“PUT IT DOWN!!” a shout comes, and Miller’s eyes divert to the scruffy older man behind the young boy -- the one currently aiming a shotgun at him. 

“FBI!” A new target is established, and he moves out of the light of the ship, aiming his weapon at the bearded man. The haze within him lifts immediately, rendering him clear minded, and he shakes his head to regain his composure. “Don’t move!” he tells the men. 

The scruffy man smirks, and Miller’s eyes narrow suspiciously. The way the older man stands, the confidence in his posturing convinces Miller that he is former military or law enforcement. And with the type of rifle in this man’s hands, he’s not an individual to be fucked with either. 

“Get your gun off my kid, Agent,” the man warns, moving to position himself between the agent and his boy. 

“Not until he backs away! There is a virus infecting the city. He needs to back the fuck away from her!” 

“Put. Your. Weapon. Down. Agent,” the man says, each word clipped between his teeth. A standstill emerges. A goal to intimidate and dominate. There’s only one alpha allowed, and as Miller sees it, it’s about territory. Miller is protecting a member of his pack, and the man is protecting his young. He didn’t stand a chance. With a single blink he lowers his gun, holding his palm up with a conciliatory nod. He breathes a sigh of relief as the other man slowly lowers his own weapon.

Too weak to intervene, Mulder’s eyes volley between the men, taking in what he’d just witnessed. With each passing moment, his heart races faster as his brain tries to connect the dots he knows are there. His ears echo with a trace of familiarity in the voice of the older man. 

Mulder’s eyes focus briefly, and he gasps as realization bolts through him like a lightning strike: the man’s piercing eyes, the face hidden beneath a thick, salt-and-peppered beard, the east-coast drawl to his accent.

It can’t be… 

Before Mulder can yell out to her, the young man walks into the light, gripping her wrist as he turns his face skyward. Like a switch has flicked in her mind, she’s jolted from the ship’s trance, blinking wildly as if awakening from a dream. It’s only then that she sees the kid standing next to her, caught in the strength of the pull from the hovering craft. The vein on his temple begins to throb visibly as sweat beads along his forehead. Scully pulls her wrist free from his grip, and stumbles backwards at the loss of contact, bringing her hand to the back of her neck and rubbing mindlessly at the prickling burn she refuses to think too much about. But Mulder sees it, watches her rub her neck with a resounding ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his illness, all too aware of what it means even if she refuses to acknowledge it. 

Like watching a dream, the sounds and movements around her are exaggerated with each passing millisecond. Muffled sounds. People moving in slow motion. If Dana Scully is ever asked one day to explain the events on the bridge, she won’t know what to tell them, other than to say that one second the ship was there, and the next it wasn’t. It simply vanished as quickly as it had appeared, restoring her mental facilities in the wake of its absence. 

A moment passes. Two. People stand shocked and still, processing in piercing silence what they’d witnessed. As if awakening from a sleep, they finally begin to move, frantic and panicked with greater urgency as the truth of what they’d seen spreads like a ripple down the bridge. 

“What the hell was *that*?” Papa hollers in fierce accusation towards the younger man.

The teenager shrugs, and meets his father’s gaze with satisfied smirk. “I told you.” 

Scully watches the interaction between father and son with growing frustration and confusion. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” she asks politely but sternly, passing glances between the two men in wait of their answer.

“Scully... “ Mulder rasps, but she holds her palm out, effectively cutting him off. 

The two strangers share a knowing glance, and it’s only after the bearded man nods to his son that Scully narrows his eyes. 

“Sir?” Scully starts, prompting him again for a response but Miller cuts to the chase and holds out his hand. 

“We’re gonna need some identification from you two, please.” 

The bearded man smirks with a deep sigh, and reaches into his back pocket. Without taking his eyes off Scully, he hands the younger agent a battered leather foldover. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” Miller asks, glancing down at the wallet. 

The other man shakes his head, eyeing the woman in front of him, with the twitch of his mouth. “It’s good to see you, Dana.” Her eyes widen with sudden clarity. 

“Scully…” Mulder rasps, but his plea goes ignored and unheard. 

“You know him?” Miller asks, handing her the identification.

The leather feels familiar in her hand, even the weight of it the same after all of these years. Flipping it open, the familiar blue and white lettering appear, and the face of a much younger man greets her as she stares down at the old badge. 

“John Doggett,” she says simply, nodding her head.

“Wait. So he’s really FBI?” Miller asks incredulously.

“Used to be,” Scully sighs, handing him back his identification. She regards him with a shocked shake of her head, and John shrugs sheepishly, each unsure of what to say to the other. 

“This is-- what are you--?” she starts, but a hacking cough behind her diverts her attention, and she moves towards the sickly man in the car, dropping to her knees in front of him. 

“We uh--” John starts but stops with a clear of his throat, unprepared for the pang that clenches his gut at the sight of her rushing to his side. He shakes his head of the silly emotion and smiles politely at the younger agent. “We used to be partners.” 

John Doggett always knew Fox Mulder was a brilliant man, even if his methods and actions left little to be desired as an FBI Agent. But, it was she who gave him the validity is work never could, his named sullied from the frivolity of his pursuits. Of course he’d seen his share working on the X-Files, finally understanding the seriousness of work he once thought ridiculous. But it was Dana Scully who saw past what others couldn’t, desiring him above all others, even at the expense of her life and that of her son. Fourteen years later, as he watches her kneel in front of him and place a hand to his fevered face, it appears as if little has changed. 

“Did you know we were here? How did you…?” Miller asks John, breaking him of his reverie.

“Our ah…” he pauses, gripping the teen’s shoulder and pulling him towards his side. “Our truck is stuck on the bridge about fifteen cars back.” He points to the other side of the bridge. “Actually, we were on our way to--”

“I have to get Mulder to the hospital,” Scully interrupts, holding his lolling head as he drifts in and out of consciousness. “We’re running out of time. The bridge is too crowded to drive through.” She shakes her head and turns back to Mulder. 

“Scully…” he rasps, and she wipes the hair from his face, shushing him. 

“Shh. I’m right here,” she soothes softly.

“We can carry him…?” Miller suggests, turning to John with a shrug, and John nods in agreement, strapping his weapon across his chest. 

“Yeah. How far up is the hospital?” 

“The light…” Mulder breathes, but she shakes her head at him, presses her lips to his fevered cheek. 

“Shhh. It’s gone. Everything is fine,” she whispers in his ear, letting her cheek linger against his own, desperate for a moment to process. Desperate for a moment to just breathe. 

“Dana?” John’s voice calls from behind and she pulls away from Mulder, pushing her hair behind her ears. 

“Yeah?”

“The hospital. How far up?” The men move next to Mulder, and she backs away, allowing them room to lift him from his seat, wrapping his arms around their necks so his feet barely skim the ground.

“Uhm -- about six, seven blocks up,” she answers shakily. 

Mulder looks at his rescuer with glazed eyes. “John Doggett,” he whispers simply. “What’s happ…?” he trails off with a droop of his lids, and John huffs with a heavy grunt as Mulder’s full weight falls on his shoulders. 

“We’re gettin’ your ass to the hospital,” John grunts with some effort, and Mulder smiles as his head tips back on weakened shoulders. 

“Jus’ like ol’ times.” A ghost of a smile twitches his lips, and John returns the smirk, beginning the slow trek off the bridge and towards salvation.

“Stay close, son!” John calls, and like a duckling following the path of his mother, the teenger falls in line, smiling shyly at Scully as he passes her in route to his guardian. 

After the death of Luke all of those years ago, she’d seen the toll that grief and devastation took on John, the way his eyes would glisten with the ghosts of his son. The missed moments. The lonely holidays. He’d been a great source of comfort and support to her in those days after she’d done the unthinkable and given up William, understanding acutely the gnawing ache that only the absence of a child can burrow into your soul. 

He’d been her rock in those days, keeping her grounded when grief and guilt had threatened to toss her into its tumultuous swells. She never did thank him for those nights when he just sat silently beside her, understanding more than she did just how much she needed someone -- how he knew that he could never replace the one person she needed there with her, but he still tried...and she noticed the effort. Even more so, she was grateful for it. In a way, she’d needed him too. 

She didn’t know he’d had another child after they left. But she’d missed so much during those years...It was too bad they’d lost contact, she muses, and it’s only when John looks back at her with a smile that she realizes she must have said it out loud. 

“Well…,” he grunts, shifting Mulder’s arm again, “things got a little hectic there at the end.” He glances sideways to the teenager. “We uh -- we didn’t know where you guys were for a while.” 

Scully shakes her head, with a rueful smile. “Of course. Right. How would you know?” she finishes rhetorically, more to herself than to him. They’d left town with a little more than a quick goodbye, forever leaving their lives in D.C. behind -- leaving the *people* in their lives behind. 

Miller shifts Mulder higher on his arm, and pretends not to listen to the conversation between the former partners. Head swimming, he feels a trickle of sweat run down his spine and he licks his dry lips, counting each step. He eyes the IV bags in Scully’s hands, and hopes that one of them has his name on it. 

“Where’s this place at?” John grumbles. Sweat beads along John’s forehead from the effort of carrying the dead weight of Fox Mulder. Though, John supposes, he’s been carrying the dead weight of Fox Mulder ever since he was taken from that Oregon forest sixteen years prior. What’s a few more steps, he muses. 

“Just uhm -- Just around the next corner,” Scully says, quickening her step and placing a hand on Mulder’s forehead, frowning when the heat of his skin sizzles against her palm. “Just a little bit longer, Mulder. We’re almost there,” she tells him, not knowing whether her words of comfort would register in his fevered mind, or if he could even hear them. 

“Do you want me to carry his legs, Papa?” the teenager asks, glancing worriedly between the struggling men and the semi-comatose man between them. John pauses for a second to consider his question before finally relenting with a nod of his head. 

“That’s a huge help. Thanks kid,” Miller says, forcing a polite smile that would have been charming on any other day if his face wasn’t pale and sweating from the virus that had started to manifest in his body. 

“Pick them up piggy-back… There you go,” John tells him. “No, no, face forward and lift them like Mama’s paddy cart.” 

The boy groans with an upturned tilt of his chin. “Ugh, her apple pie sounds so good right now.” He lifts Mulder’s heels and holds them to his hips as he begins his walk, fantasizing about his favorite food in the way that teenage boys do; ravenous bottomless pits always searching for their mother’s cooking. 

Scully smiles softly. “Must be some good apple pie your wife makes if he’s thinking about it out here in the middle of all of this,” Scully says, glancing over at John. 

He eyes her curiously with a curt shake of his head. “My wife? I--” There’s a snicker heard up front, and Scully’s eyes grow wide in realization.

“Oh--I’m sorry,” Scully rushes, “I just thought…” she trails off, starting again after a pause, “You said ‘Mama’-- I just assumed…” She rolls her eyes, and dismissively waves her hand. “It’s been a day -- a year really -- so just… just ignore me,” she finishes with an exasperated rush of breath, and an embarrassed tinge high on her cheeks. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” John chuckles, pausing a beat before starting again. “Nah, Mama was this old woman who lived back home,” he explains. “She’d carry around this cross between a paddy cart and a wheelbarrow selling pies and jams out the back.” 

“With the best apple pie,” the boy hollers without turning around, and Scully smiles. 

“Sounds nice.” 

“It was.”

The group rounds the final corner and the Emergency sign glitters like a beacon in the distance. Just a few more steps. A collective sigh is heard, and the teenager turns back with a smirk. “Jeez, you guys act as if it’s life or death or something,” he jests, and Scully ducks her chin at the surprising retort of the kid. 

“Yeah.’s...n-n-not like...i’ss the...end of the world,” a raspy voice cracks, matching the teenager’s quip with a fevered smile, and Scully turns to the now-conscious Mulder with a shake of her head. 

“Mulder, we’re almost--” she starts.

“Scully, I gotta...tell you...I think--” He coughs intermittently, struggling for breath with each word he speaks. 

“Shhh. Don’t speak. We’re almost there.”

“No. Scully--” 

John makes eye contact with the dying man, and nods his head with a loaded meaning. Mulder’s eyes flutter closed, with a soft sigh escaping his dry lips. “We’ll talk more at the hospital, ‘k Mulda?” 

The teen scuffs his shoes at non-existent rocks, his brows furrowed. Gone is the sarcastic, witty teen cracking jokes in the middle of a major pandemic, and Scully places a concerned palm on his back. “I know it’s scary to see all of this, but he’s gonna be okay.” 

He glances sideways at her with a gentle nod. He knew she was trying to soothe him, and take away his worry, but he wasn’t willing to let on that it wasn’t Mulder he was worrying about. So he settles for a simple, “Thanks.”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Dana, by the way.” She holds her hand out to him in invitation. He looks down at her hand and then glances to John, never ceasing to stop. 

After an awkward beat, she looks back at John with shrug, mouthing don’t-worry-about-it back at him when she sees the disappointed look on his face, but John shakes his head and halts the group. “Stop.” 

They move to the side as best they can to avoid being trampled by the frantic crowds of people trying to escape the city, and John points his finger at the teen. “Don’t be disrespectful. You know better than that,” he says sternly. ‘Drop his legs and introduce yourself, son” he tells the young boy, gesturing to Scully with his chin. 

Father and son share a knowing glance, communicating wordlessly through the stern look of the elder and the nervous look of the minor, before the latter finally relents, with a grumbled, “Yes, sir.” 

The other men stagger slightly as Mulder’s legs are placed on the ground, shifting his weight distribution awkwardly.

She smiles at him. “It’s okay. My father was in the military, too. I got plenty a stern lecture in my day,” she tells him, hoping her cheeks aren’t as red as the teen’s appear to be.

“We should have done this earlier,” John sighs, but Scully shakes her head. 

“No, it’s been -- Don’t blame yourself...” 

“Scully--” Mulder croaks as an ambulance whizzes by, his plea is lost to the lights and sirens that go blaring into the night. 

“I’m Dana,” Scully shouts over the sound, extending her hand. “Your father and I used to be partners back in the day.” 

The teenager chuckles with a lift of his brows, glancing between Mulder and John with a lopsided grin. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about that.” 

“You have.” She repeats back to him with a curious tilt of her head. 

The teenager nods with a shrug. “Sure.” 

She eyes John and his son curiously, wondering just what he’d told of their adventures all those years ago, wondering why his son would have such an understanding about their time together. 

“Why…” she starts, but trails off as the entire chessboard comes into view. It’s been fourteen years since she’s seen John, and this kid looks older than fourteen, though not by much. There’s no way he had a kid, or was even in a relationship when she left. The hairs stand on the back of her neck, and she pushes down the emotion it’s taken her fourteen years, six therapists and nine states to repress. 

“John?” She turns to him, breathlessly asking him to prove her wrong, to will her eyes from spilling the emotion gathering behind her lids. She’s been wrong before. She’ll deal with it. She’ll handle it. She’ll get passed it just like she’s done before. 

You’re overreacting, Dana, she chides herself, shivering nonetheless at the possibility of her greatest dream and and her greatest fear becoming a reality. 

John’s eyes soften as he watches the emotions across her face, and he turns to his boy with a soft plea. “Go on. Introduce yourself to your mother.” 

She sees the hand reaching out to shake, but she’s paralyzed, unable how to move her body as she stares unblinkingly, silently cursing herself for not noticing sooner. The eyes. The jaw. What kind of mother doesn’t even recognize her own child, she berates. But the boy smiles at her in a way that seems familiar even if his grown features make her heart break with the realization that he is no longer the same infant she memorized over the years. No, her son is grown now, foreign to her senses, and it’s only then that a single tear falls down her face, and the words she never thought she’d hear are spoken.

“It’s nice to meet you. My name is William.”

\---

Smoke pours from the hole in his throat, billowing into the air of the room. He lifts the phone to his ear without preamble, not even glancing at the screen before the call is connected.

“Yes,” he says smoothly, lifting his chin in offering for another drag from the woman standing beside him. “Is the subject secured?”

He pushes her hand away, and closes his eyes, inhaling the smoke deeply into his blackened lungs. “What do—You’re sure?”

An eerie smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he pulls the receiver from his ear and places it into the cradle, ending the call. “We have a new development,” he tells the woman standing next to him.

“What’s that?” she asks softly, her face twisted in disgust as she inserts the butt of the cigarette into the port of his neck.

“It seems that our mission to retrieve Agent Scully has failed,” he says, but the hint of joviality in his voice betrays any disappointment.

“And?” she prompts.

“But in finding Agent Scully,” he says, blowing the final drag into the air, “We’ve seemed to locate the one person who I never thought I’d see again – the proof of everything we’re trying to do.”

The woman stands tall, squaring her shoulders as his words wash over her.

The old man meets her eyes, his request ominously clear. “Bring him to me.”

 

\-------  
End of Chapter 1


	2. Ring Around the Rosy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe he’s right, she thinks. They’d survived the toxic poison of alien blood, abductions, freaks and monsters, murderers and sociopaths. They’d survived alien viruses, and near-death trips to the Antarctic. They’d survived medical experiments, cancer, and stays in the psychiatric ward. They’d even survived death itself.
> 
> Maybe there is hope, she reassures herself as she pulls their hands closer to her body. Mulder looks over at her with a small smile, and she meets his eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EACH CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED ON SUNDAYS AT 9:00PM EST

2005  


She was quiet, unusually so as she sat in the dark corner of his porch, waiting for him. The vanilla orange musk of her body oil clued him into her presence even before her moonlit outline became apparent. Her scent permeated the air around him, making his cock twitch even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, her silence eerie and unnerving. She had waited for him before, surprising him at the end of his day with a beer and brush of her soft lips against his. But never like this. She lit a cigarette, and he watched the tip glow in the darkness, and soon the scent of burning tobacco overpowered her rich, intoxicating scent.

Both annoyed and intrigued by her presence, he adjusted his weight from one foot to the other. He sensed a shift in her, and he wondered if she was aware of it herself. Watching a long trail of smoke dissipate into the soft breeze, he opened his mouth, finally breaking the thick silence. “I thought you’d quit.”

He felt her wry smile, even if he couldn’t see it. “Desperate times call for desperate coping mechanisms,” she said as she flicked the ash from the tip, and it floated into the air, carried away into the night.

He nodded once, his jaw twitching. “Are you going to tell me why you’re sitting in the dark on my porch?”

Ignoring his question, the tip of the cigarette glowed brightly again, and she inhaled deeply.

He crossed his arms with an impatient sigh. “Monica, what–?” he started, but she cut him off.

“Something happened today.”

“What?”

She stubbed out her cigarette, and stood, brushing her dark hair back from her face. “We need to talk, John.”

She brushed past him and opened his door, proceeding to walk into his home no differently than the two hundred other times she had done it before. But that night there was an energy about her that was different, a weight that was visibly weighing on her shoulders. He’d never been one to believe in the metaphysical, but his relationship with Monica Reyes changed that. The yin to his yang, the soft to his hard. As frustrating and infuriating as it could be at times, there was something innocent, undeniably romantic about the way she approached life. There was a childlike curiosity about her approach to the world. It was, at times, aggravating, but it was also what had made him fall in love with her. When his mind was closed, hers was opened. Open to new ideas, new theories, new possibilities. What they had seen together as partners on the X-Files couldn’t be denied. Truths and lies had become a part of their life together, living in the shadows of the two agents who had left before them, on the run for their lives even in the face of absolute dejection and loss.

“I’ve been… I haven’t been entirely honest with you, John,” she said softly, fiddling with her hands before she finally turned to face him in the middle of his living room.

He shrugged out of his jacket, pulling his tie loose. “About what?”

She wiped her shaky hands on her jeans, and opened her mouth, pausing at the top of a deep breath. “About six months ago, I was summoned.”

“’Summoned? By who?”

“I…,” she trailed off, swallowing thickly. “I’m not entirely sure how… I mean…,” she sighed, looking to the ceiling for inspiration. The silence was deafening. Finally she spoke. “CGB Spender is alive, John.”  
His eyes widened in shock, even as the wind is knocked from his lungs. “I know what I saw, and I saw that missile explode his little pueblo shit hole,” he seethed, pointing his finger with a defiant shake of his head. “That’s not possible, Monica!”

She shook her head. “Well, it’s not. He’s…” she trailed off, grimacing as she recalled the sight of his disfigurement. “He’s severely burned,” she explained. “Deformed, really. But alive,” she finished shakily.

John stood motionless in front of her, his jaw agape with the shock of her confession; his gut clenching and twisting with the realization of her betrayal. The silence was deafening.

“You’ve been lying to me–”

“John–”

“–about something like THIS?!” he shouted, and she flinched.

“Please, listen–” she pleaded.

“No! I– Monica, we spend…,” he trailed off, unable to find the words in the fury of emotion swirling inside of his brain, garbling his ability to speak coherently. “How could you keep– I just… WHY, Mon?” He stomped his foot indignantly, as his cheeks flushed angrily.

“He offered me a deal,” she said, choking out the words as a tear fell down her face. She paused a beat. “He offered *us* a deal.”

He scoffed, shaking his head with a roll of his eyes. “What sort of deal?” he sighed tersely.

“A chance to save ourselves.”

“From what?” he spat.

“When the aliens colonize in 2012, they’re going to need a group to lead the new world.”

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding –”

“It’s happening, John.” She shook her head emphatically. “Whether you want to believe it or not.”

“Don’t tell me what I believe, Monica!” he railed. “I’ve seen the same things you have. I was there!”

“I know.” She nodded tearfully. “Then you know how important it is to be amongst the select–”

“Do you honestly think you can fight against them while working for the enemy, Monica?”

“That’s not–”

“What did he say to you to get you to do this?”

“What?” She blinked rapidly. “I don’t know…” she trailed off with a shake of her head.

“Well, he must have *something* against you, because the woman I know – the woman I *love* wouldn’t do something like this.” He paused, watching her pleading eyes spill tears down her face. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me six month ago, Monica” he relents, allowing his anger to dissipate to a place of defeat. “I could have helped you,” he whispered at length.

She smiled sadly. “I thought I was doing the right thing, John.”

“By making a deal with the devil?” He shook his head slowly. “After everything that he put us through – put Dana and Mulder through?”

“He said he needed me,” she pleaded, wiping her tear-streaked face. “He said my expertise on the X-Files has been invaluable to the Project.”

“The Project,” he repeated, with a knowing nod.

She scoffed. “John, I don’t understand why it’s so difficult for you to understand-”

“No. I understand just fine. What I don’t understand is why you,” he began, “someone who spent a year on the X-Files, is someone who is *more* qualified than Mulder or Dana.”

“You know they’re in hiding, John.” She swiped at her cheeks with frustration.

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, cut the bullshit Monica! You know that if he wanted them found they would have been found in a week. He doesn’t want *them*,” he spewed at her. “He wants someone *close* to them. Someone who has information.”

She paused a beat, clearing her throat. “What information?”

“Don’t play stupid,” he said.

“I’m not… I don’t–” She shook her head vehemently.

“I’m talking about WILLIAM!”

His name hung in the thick air, a distant memory of which they rarely spoke.

She licked her lips. “What you have to understand is–”

“Tell me that you haven’t made a deal to save yourself after everything we went through to keep William safe.”

A weak smile spread across her face. “But he’s the key to it all.”

“Monica,” he breathed in shock, staggering back with a numb shake of his head.

“He’s going to play an incredibly important role in their colonization–”

“Which is EXACTLY what Dana DIDN’T WANT!” he shouted.

“At least this way, he’ll be protected when the time comes. Don’t you see, John?”

Seconds passed as they stared at one another, eyes tearful with betrayal, shame, and the piercing burn of heartache. “Why are you telling me this now?” he finally whispered, voice raw and choked with unshed emotion. “It seems like you’ve made your decision.”

Swallowing thickly, she took a deep breath and reached into her pocket, pulling a white piece of paper from inside. “Because the Project needs you, John,” she said, and then added after a moment, “*I* need you.”

He stared at the folded paper in her trembling hands. “What is that?”

“An address.”

“An address for what?” he seethed.

“We, The Project, need your compliance, and the paper explains everything…gives you directions.”

He harshly pulled the paper from her fingers, opening the sheet to reveal the information inside. With a bitter nod of his head, he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, and handed the crumpled sheet back to her.

Feeling the reality of the situation finally dawning, and the weight settling heavy on her shoulders, she closed the space between them, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Please, John,” she whispered against his cheek, and he found his arms wrapping around the traitorous woman in front of him without even realizing it, even as his heart was being torn with each wracking sob of her body. How many nights had they spent wrapped in each other, he asked himself. How many tomorrows did he count on, now forever stolen from him with a deal she made behind his back?

She pulled away only enough to press her lips to his in the softest of kisses. “Please do it,” she whispered against his mouth. “It has to be done.”

He cupped her tearful face between his palms, tucking errant strands of dark hair behind her ears. Shaking his head gently, he pressed one final kiss to her brow, inhaling the scent of her one last time. One last memory for him to hold on to when the nights would invariably became too lonely.

With a finality and strength he didn’t realize he possessed, he disentangled himself from her arms and opened the door. An invitation. A farewell.

“It’s time for you to leave,” he choked emotionally. “Goodbye, Monica.”

—-

2016

“Hurry, this way,” Scully says as she pushes through the doors to the ER, thrusting them all into a world of chaos, alive and bristling with commotion.

The Trojan Virus has already decimated 35 percent of the population in twenty-four hours, by some estimates, depleting hospitals and doctors’ offices from the life-saving equipment needed to treat and save the surviving population.

Pale and sickly patients litter the hospital corridors, coughing and wheezing and sweating beneath their hospital gowns. They watch with dull and lifeless eyes as the new group bustles by. Some cast envious eyes in their direction, jealous of their exuberant energy and healthy, rosy complexions. Others cast knowing glances, well-aware of what lay in the future for the seemingly healthy group.

Miller and John drag Mulder as they follow Scully through the crowded hallways. Parents hold their sick children, and elderly couples hack as they grip each others hands, nurses sprinting from one room to the next while wails of pain erupt from behind a drawn curtain. The few who are still symptomless claw at the remaining pieces of equipment, desperate and screaming for help as their loved ones lay dying a slow and painful death. 

“Keep up, Will! Belt loop!” John calls out, casting a cursory glance behind him to make sure his charge is close at his side. As a young boy, he’d been trained to stay close to John, to keep a hand on his arm or a finger hooked in a belt loop – whatever it took to keep him safely beside him, even in the rushed madness of their inconsistent lifestyle.

William speeds up and habitually loops his finger through a back belt loop like he’d done a thousand times before, grateful for it’s ability to keep him close but also allow another to be his guide. With the oppressive weight of the dying that floats throughout the hospital in a thick syrup of death, he’s overwhelmed by the dark swirl that courses through him, and he drops his eyes to the whitened tip of his curled finger, silently pleading to find respite from the pain and suffering.

He catches Mulder glancing his way every few seconds, his jaw slack, forehead dripping with sweat. Of course, he’s fantasized about meeting his parents, about what he would say to them in that moment. He’d grown up hearing about them; the rare, the scary, the unexplained. His mother: the smart and brainy one, ever the one to keep her partner on his toes. His father: the believer, the renegade agent. He’d sensed that there was more to the bedtime stories than what he was told, parts and segments left out for reasons he doesn’t know, but as he finally makes eye contact with the legend of a man he grew up hearing about, he can only hope that his father survives to finally be able to tell him about the rest of it…

After pushing through endless crowds, and rounding a dozen corners, an empty room is finally found. “In here,” Scully says as she pushes a door open. They quickly huddle inside before closing and locking the door, keeping away the vultures that roam outside, looking for scraps of anything that could save themselves or their loved ones.

The medical debris littering the floor is an ominous reminder of the realities of their situation. The staff hasn’t cleaned the room yet, but the body is absent. The chilling finality of death still lingers in the air though, and William closes his eyes against the onslaught, presses himself against a wall to keep out of the way.

John and Miller lay Mulder on the bed, and Scully works quickly, cutting the sweat-drenched shirt from his body and securing an IV line to his arm, hanging saline and the vaccine. She squeezes the bags intermittently, forcing the fluid to flow into his body at a faster rate, as if squeezing the bag could squeeze the life back into his limp form. A monitor echoes with the sound of his heart rate, and Scully watches the numbers rise and fall, grimacing with a shake of her head.

“Agent Miller, I need for you to call Agent Einstein,” Scully says, moving to the supply drawer and pulling a blood collection tube from the first tray. “Get her down here now, please.”

“What about the stem cells you talked about?” Miller asks her with a swipe to his sweaty forehead. “Shouldn’t we start looking into that?” He casts a worried glance in Mulder’s direction.

“What stem cells?” Scully asks, her voice light with distraction while opening and closing various cabinets in search of supplies.

Miller skirts an awkward glance to John and William. “On the bridge you–”

Scully halts abruptly, closing her eyes with recognition. “Right,” she breathes. “Uhm…we have to run some tests first,” she tells him, opening another drawer and pulling a clear plastic tube from the tray. “Need to see if Mulder has a… match.” She lifts skeptical eyes to the teen standing against the wall, dropping them quickly before he can meet them.

She wraps the tourniquet around Mulder’s arm. The tightness squeezes at the thin skin, and the rubber rips at the delicate hairs in her hurried movements. Mulder groans from his stillness. “Easy there, Doc.”

“Shhh, Mulder. Just a little prick.”

“That’s not what you said- ow!” He winces as the needle is plunged into his skin. She catches his sleepy eyes, and he smiles tiredly at her, feeling his fingers twitch against her pant leg. “Tired,” he breathes, and she nods, squeezing his hand.

“Then go back to sleep,” she whispers, and brushes a sweaty strand of hair from his fevered forehead, ignoring the disappointment she feels when he doesn’t protest her request, understanding all too well just how sick he must be if he’d rather sleep than goad her mothering tendencies.

Mulder’s heart rate beats slow but steady in the quiet room, and Scully sighs at the sound of it, closing her eyes to its rhythmic droll, the sweet lulling drum that she fell asleep to night after night for so many years. It’s an indulgence she allows herself, the simple pleasure of watching him breathe, listening to him live.

“Agent Scully?” a quiet voice interrupts her reverie and she opens her eyes.“I called down to the lab while you were…” Miller’s hushed voice trails off with a gesture towards Mulder.

Scully stands and wipes her hands on her pants. “And?” she asks, with a lift of her brows.

“She can’t come down here.”

“What? Why?”

“She’s conferencing with the CDC, and voice over IP service is sketchy. Signal keeps dropping, but—“ he pauses, looking down at his phone as begins to buzz in his hand.

“Yeah?” he answers, wincing as he walks towards the window in the room, pressing his finger into his open ear as he struggles to hear. “You’re gonna have to speak up,” he practically shouts into the phone. “You keep cutting – yeah,” he pauses, “okay.”

He hands Scully the phone, and she shakes her hair from her face as she presses the device to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Agent Scully?” Einstein’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from a tin can, rather than from the speaker on the phone. Scully steps towards the window in the hopes of gaining better reception.

“How are you holding up, Agent Einstein?”

“I’m fine, but I don- very long – talk,” she says through the scratchy line, every other word seeming clipped and cut as the phone signal edges between signals. “We are trying to – the CDC back up to conference – computer, but – internet keeps dipping in and out. I think – towers are being – too.” The line crackles, and Scully shakes her head in frustration.

“Yeah, I’m starting to gather that,” she mumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What?” Einstein yells through the static-filled line.

“I… never mind,” she says, raising her voice over the now constant static. Scully walks back to the bed and reaches over, taking the vials of blood and handing them to Miller.

“I need you to run— hello?” Scully pulls the phone from her ear as the screen blinks ‘call dropped’. “Shit,” she breathes, and hands the phone back to a coughing Miller, swaying as he fights to hold himself up against the wall.

“I’ll take them down to the lab,” Miller offers, gesturing to the blood-filled vials that roll atop the metal tray.

“There’s still another one I need,” she says, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand with a thick swallow. “Where’d John go?” she asks, lifting her eyes to William.

He gestures to the door with his thumb. “He said he was gonna keep watch in the hall,” he tells her, and she nods twice, lifting the remaining vial from the tray.

“I need a cheek swab from you so we can run some tests,” she tells him coldly, wincing at the emotionless tone to her voice. She pauses in wait of his protest, in wait of the hundreds of questions he must be dying to ask, but he simply stares at her, waiting for an explanation that she’ll never give.

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, eyes skittering back and forth, daring the other to speak first. Finally, with a lift of his chin he acquiesces, giving her the benefit of his trust - trust that she’s too afraid to return.

“Thanks,” she whispers, avoiding his eyes as she twists the cap back on the vial, returning to the her makeshift workstation. Quickly bundling the vials, she holds them out to Miller.

“You need to get down to the lab and get hooked up to some fluids and the vaccine.” Scribbling on an errant piece of paper, she hands it to the younger agent who takes it with shaking fingers. “Please tell Dr. Einstein that I need these results ASAP,” she implores, and he nods in return, wiping his arm across his sweating forehead.

“I’ll call you when I have news,” he rasps as he leaves the room, and Scully brings a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t believe it either,” she hears, and she turns to the source of the sound.

“William…”

He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, shaking his head with a sad smile. “You don’t think I’m him. Your son.”

Her gut somersaults at the forlorn smirk that crosses his young face, his downcast blue eyes hiding the obvious pain behind his words.

“That’s not what-”

“It’s fine, really,” he shrugs, smiling with a dismissive wave of his wrist. “You need the proof. It’s who- I was told you…” he trails off.

His throat bobs convulsively as he looks away from her, and it takes everything in her to not reach out to comfort him. It’s not like her arms don’t ache with the desire for it – to comfort him as a mother would comfort her son, but she fights the urge to pull him into her arms, needing the finality of proof before she could allow herself to dream the impossible. 

She licks her lips, sighing with a cap of her pen. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.” He drops his face with a mirthless chuckle.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, and her heart clenches at the obvious lie.

“Listen,” she starts again, moving towards him and sitting beside him on the small couch fitted in the hospital room. “It’s not that I *don’t* believe it,” she says cautiously, staring down at her lap. “It’s just that these things really *are* complicat–”

“Then do you think I’m your son?” He turns his face towards hers, and she swallows thickly, unable to meet his eyes, fearful of the truth that resides there…in her own eyes, and his. 

“I think,” she starts slowly, closing her eyes with a deep breath, “that there are a lot of emotions right now, and considering the state of-”

“Don’t I look like him?” he asks, shaking his head with a pinch of his brows.

Scully huffs with a shake of her head, closing her eyes to the swimming visions of the light-haired cherub that she once called her son. “William, hardly anyone looks like their baby photos after a certain age.”

“I meant him.” He gestures to Mulder’s bed, and Scully feels her throat tighten, closing her eyes to similarities she’s denied since she first laid eyes on him. “I think I look like you too, but I’m–”

She stands with a brusqueness that makes her head spin. “I need to talk to John.”

—

“Agent Doggett?”

John stands straight at her arrival, adjusting the rifle belt across his chest. “How’s Mulder?” he asks, glancing curiously behind her as the door closes.

“He’s stable for now,” she sighs. “But we’re gonna see if we can run some more tests. I just sent Agent Miller down to the lab with some blood work.”

“Yeah, I saw him leave.”

“What are you doing out here in the hallway?” she asks.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” he answers with a smirk, and she peers down the hallway with a cautious glance.

“I needed some air.”

Her answer hangs between them, and he can’t help but wonder about the teen on the other side of the door. “Everything okay in there?”

She closes her eyes and leans against the wall, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth as she considers her answer. He watches as her mouth opens and closes a few times, puffs of air escaping where words should follow but never do. He can sense she needs the space, needs the quiet to collect her thoughts amidst the near-constant rush of adrenaline from the last twenty four hours.

Over the years, he’s played this very moment in his mind a hundred times, varying the words and even the location, but he never expected it under these sort of circumstances with the world suffering around them and Mulder dying on the other side of the wall. He might have waited over a decade for this very conversation, but it still catches him off-guard when she finally opens her mouth and speaks.

“Is he really my son?”

He lifts his chin and regards her tearful eyes with a thoughtful pause. “Yes. He is.”

A tear falls, but she makes no move wipe it away. “What proof do you have?” her sandpaper voice asks with an indignant rise of her brow. “How do you know?” 

“I just do.” He shrugs, as if it’s the simplest question, with the simplest of answers. All the ways he’s envisioned telling her certainly didn’t include that sort of answer, and he winces at the simplicity of it, nodding at her protest even before she speaks it.

“How can I trust that?”

“Why would I lie to you?” he asks with a soft voice through narrowed eyes, stepping forward into her personal space. With a shake of her head she looks away, shifting her weight uncomfortably. “I think you know he’s your son, but for whatever reason you’re reluctant to want to believe.”

“You don’t understand what I’ve…” she trails off, swallowing thickly.

He brushes a tear away with his thumb, feeling her skin tremble under his touch. “I would never hurt you,” he says, and she closes her eyes with a bite of her lip.

“How long have you had him?” she whispers.

“Around eleven…twelve years now.”

Her mouth drops as her eyes fill with fresh tears, and he’s left with only guesses as to the secrets that still remain behind her emotion-filled eyes. “Eleven years,” she repeats with a tense nod of her head. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispers.

“I never expected it under these sort of-”

She shakes her head. “No, I just mean…” She pauses to collect her thoughts. “Not a minute before you guys showed up, I was telling Agent Miller that my son might be able to help Mulder because they shared similar DNA… And then you guys just…”

“How?” John asks.

“How what?” She pats at her cheeks.

“How can William help Mulder?”

She nods and straightens her stance, and John imagines she’s grateful for the change in topic – grateful for the chance to discuss the facts of what she does know, versus the uncomfortable truths still easiest denied than believed. “Due to the experiments that were performed on me when I was abducted in 1994, my DNA was tampered with –”

“Branched DNA, I remember,” he cuts in with a nod.

“Anyway,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “The branched DNA shocked my system so severely that it almost killed it.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Right. But I believe it’s responsible for the introduction of alien DNA into my genome.”

“*Alien* DNA?”

She lifts a single brow up at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten everything we’ve seen, Agent Doggett.”

John chuckles, gripping his rifle strap with a shift of his feet. “Of course not, *Agent* Scully.” She smirks at his retort, and he continues. “So, because this *alien* DNA is a part of you, it’s a part of Will?”

“Yes.”

“And because he also shares the same DNA as Mulder, it might be the only solution we have to his cure,” he says with a sudden realization.

She nods. “The vaccine we’ve developed is weak, not really meant for someone as sick as he is. He needs stem cells, to be honest, but we don’t have that kind of time either,” she explains, shaking her head as she stares down the hallway in exasperation. “I’m hoping a transfusion will be sufficient. But I still want to check for a match.”

“Are they the same blood type?” John asks, and Scully clears her throat, shifting her weight.

“Due to the, uh, questions surrounding my pregnancy-"

“You mean how you got pregnant?” he asks, and she snorts, dropping her chin as her cheeks tinge pink.

“Wait. That’s not—“ he starts, but she holds a hand out to stop him, smiling at his embarrassment. He still wants to take back the last ten seconds, the last ten years really.

“I know how I got *pregnant*, John. What I’m still not entirely sure of was how my *fertility* was restored when I was told that the experiments had left me barren.”

He nods in understanding and allows her time to continue, unwilling to say anything lest he put his big military boot in his mouth again.

“Regardless,” she goes on, “based on my history, and based on the…concerns…I had, and *still* have, to be honest, I had multiple tests and exams run. All indicated that Mulder is the father, and they shared the same B positive blood type. Based on their shared DNA and the matching blood type, William should be a perfect match… If that’s really William,” she adds at length.

“You know it is,” he reminds her, and he watches her lip tremble before his eyes.

The nod of her head is so small that he would have missed it had he not been looking right at her.

”’Kay,” he concedes, rubbing her arms. “What sort of tests does William need?”

She feels her eyes sting, and she steps away from him with a huff.

“Well,” she begins, squaring her shoulders. “The law requires I obtain parental consent to perform a medical procedure.” The air around them hangs with the implied meaning behind her statement and his head falls to the side in realization. Before he can say anything, she speaks again. “Do I have your permission?”

“Dana,” he starts softly, stepping towards her, but she lifts her chin defiantly, and the tears he sees break his heart into a thousand pieces. “You have to understand-”

“Do. I. Have. *Your.* Permission?”

“Dana, you’re just as much his–”

“That doesn’t erase the fact that I know nothing about him,” she says shakily, hoping her tone doesn’t sound as petty as it does to her own ears. “I don’t know his medical history; I don’t know if he has any food allergies, or if he’s ever had a broken bone,” she rattles off, her voice edged with growing emotion. “I don’t know when he lost his first tooth, or even what shoe size he wears. I am not legally qualified to make medical decisions for him.”

“But you’re still his mother.”

“I gave up that title fourteen years ago, John.” She shakes her head. “He has a mother. And I am not her.”

His eyes widen in shock, paralyzing him where he stands, her words still echoing in the back of his mind even as seconds tick by in buzzing silence between them.

“Well, I’m not his guardian,” he practically whispers. “Not legally, at least.”

“Then I guess it wouldn’t matter if I already collected his DNA and sent it down to the lab…?” she asks with a lift of her brow. “Seeing as how we’re both in equal non-legal standing,” she challenges.

He cocks his head with a surprised guffaw, and narrows his eyes. “Yeah. Sure.” It’s all he can say.

He can’t deny the twinge of anger that swirls in his chest at her confession, the twisting in his gut at the knowledge that she could so easily usurp his authority, immediately start making the decisions for a boy she still doesn’t believe is her own. He’d raised William. He’d sacrificed his life for the kid. Regardless of whatever the blood tests might reveal, the truth is that he’d raised William, and he bristles at the notion that he might be so easily dismissed.

“Listen, Dana,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“I’m sorry,” she says with a drop of her chin. “I just…” She pauses. “I can’t believe I’ve missed everything.” It’s barely a whisper, but he hears her all the same.

The fight leaves him in a deep sigh, and he steps towards her, cupping a cheek. “Dana, I know what it’s like to lose a son, and I know what it’s like to live every day with regret, wishing somehow that things were different.” She finally meets his eyes, and he watches the tears fall silently down her face. “I know there’s a lot to discuss,” he continues tenderly. “And I know that it will take time, but you have your son back, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you aren’t separated again, okay?”

All she can do is nod.

—

He can hear the voices around him, muffled spurts of conversation that drift in and out of his consciousness as he tries to the fight the darkness that threatens to consume him.

“Let’s get you hooked up to a bag,” he hears Scully say. “Not showing symptoms…matter of time,” her voice wavers in and out before blackness overtakes him again.

“Thanks for savin’ one of these for me,” he hears a man’s voice say, and it takes what little brain power he has to remember the source of the voice. Fighting against the ache in every joint, he opens his mouth, and winces at the way his throat burns from disuse.

“Scu…”

He feels her hand before he can see her, smells the lingering remnants of her perfume as her hair brushes across his cheeks. He fights against the heaviness of his eyelids, squeezing her hand in return. 

“I’m here, Mulder,” he hears her say, and he finally breaks the surface of the darkness, opening his eyes to the bright world that awaits him. He sees only the ceiling tiles above him, and he feels her free hand tilt his cheek towards her. “Hi,” she smiles at him, and he smiles tiredly, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Where am I?” he rasps.

“You’re in the hospital,” she tells him, and he feels her cool fingers brush the hair from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

He swallows thickly, grimacing at the acrid taste in the back of his throat, and lifts his head when she brings a straw to his lips, grateful that he never had to even ask her.

“Like shit,” he chokes out, dropping his head back to the pillow with a grumbling sigh. She presses the button on the side of the bed, and Mulder feels his body moving, sitting up as the bed shifts under him. His head spins with the sudden change in elevation, and the room blurs, duplicating everything in sight. Two white hospital blankets in two beige hospital beds; two Scullys floating at his side; two Williams standing in-

William.

He gasps as he forces his eyes open, blinking rapidly at the teenager who leans on the wall in front of him.

“Hi.” William smiles at him, and he feels his heart skip a beat. It wasn’t a dream. The light. The bridge. Mulder shakes his head, blinking rapidly to clear the traitorous tears that have gathered in his eyes.

“I…,” he starts, but trails off as words escape him. What’s he supposed to say to the child who was only two days old the last time he saw him? What’s he supposed to say to the child who has grown into a towering young man, who looks so much like his mother it makes his chest hurt? What’s he supposed to say to the child he abandoned, the child who never knew him?

He says the first thing that comes to his mind, dropping his head back to the pillow.

“Fuck.”

Scully grips his hand, anchoring him as his world begins to spin again. John chuffs besides him, and Mulder turns his head towards the noise, rolling his eyes with a soft groan. “Oh God. It really wasn’t a dream.”

“Mulder, we don’t- we’re still waiting on test results,” she starts, placing her hand on his chest to steady his breathing. “We don’t have proof of anything.”

“That’s what you always say,” he sighs with a smirk, and she leans over him, pressing her lips to his forehead.

“Do you need anything? I’m going to go down to the lab and check on your results.”

He shakes his head. “Be careful,” is all he can think of telling her, and she smiles down at him before looking over to John.

“I’ll be right back.”

—

32 MINUTES LATER…

“Wait a minute,” Will says as he throws the crust of his sandwich down to the plastic tray sitting beside Mulder’s thighs. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He shakes his head and turns to John who laces his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

“What doesn’t make sense?” John’s voice is edged with amusement and he sneaks a quick glance over to Mulder who does his best to match his smirk, but falters as his red-rimmed eyes begin to droop again.

“He could fit through a ceiling vent?” the teen asks incredulously. “And he made a nest out of newspaper and bile?” He grimaces and shivers with revulsion, and Mulder silently chuckles at his reaction. “It’s just so-”

“Impossible?” John asks, and William cocks his head with a shrug.

“Well, yeah, and also really gross,” William adds.

“You sound like me when I started on the X-Files,” John says with fond remembrance.

“He sounds like his *mother*,” Mulder rasps pointedly, meeting John’s gaze from across the bed. Holding it.

William clears his throat and crumples the trash from his meal. “When is…uhm,” he starts. “When is Dana coming back?”

Mulder closes his eyes and drops his head back to the bed, wondering just how long it would take the vaccine to start working on his illness. Hours have passed and yet he is only feeling worse, not better. And while his son and John got to roam around freely, and eat whatever they could scour from what was left of the hospital cafeteria, he feels like death had warmed over him, edging him closer and closer to the abyss as he struggles to remain conscious.

—-

“It’s a match,” Einstein sighs, pushing the test results towards Scully. “Whoever that kid is, he’s your son. Yours and Agent Mulder’s.”

“You’re positive?”

Einstein chuckles and crosses her arms across her chest. “DNA doesn’t lie, Doctor Scully,” she says. “But we did find some abnormalities. Both in William and Mulder’s blood.”

“What sort of abnormalities?” Her voice sounds far more controlled than she would have expected given the erratic beatings of her heart as it hammers nervously inside of her chest. Visions of another life flash before her eyes. All of those months worrying about the hows and whys behind her pregnancy and the health of her young child. All of her hopes and dreams for her son. Would he lead a normal life: go to school, have fun with his friends and maybe break a bone or two as young boys tend to do, or would he greet her one evening with black reticulan eyes, as the truth of his existence was finally revealed?

Einstein reaches across the metal table and hands Scully the print out of her results. “Your DNA showed an extra pairing at chromosome 7, right? A pairing that we now believe to be alien DNA.”

“Right.”

Einstein walks to the printer and lifts a second paper from the tray, looking down at the results as she walks it to Scully. She takes the first result from Scully’s fingers and lays it on the cool metal table side-by-side. 

“We theorized that the tests performed on you in 1994 altered your germ cells in such a way that any future generations would be impacted, correct?”

“On all of us, actually. Smallpox-“ Scully says, but Einstein shakes her head impatiently.

“Yes, but yours is different. Something happened to you to alter your genetic makeup, the consequence of those experiments being-“

“Alien DNA,” Scully finishes with a sigh, rubbing her face with her hands. “But we know all of this already.”

Einstein crosses her arms in front of her chest and narrows her eyes at the other woman. “Yes, but I think there’s a lot more you’re not telling me. And it would be helpful if you would tell me so I could do my job. I’ve got Hopkins and the CDC up my ass for information, and I can’t tell them anything if you’re keeping things from me.”

Scully turns and regards her coolly. “What are you suggesting?”

“I just feel like I don’t know the entire story here. You were taken in 1994. Experiments were conducted that altered your DNA in such a way that your blood work became practically unreadable upon your return.”

“I came very close to dying, yes.”

“Okay, I understand all of that. But why?”

Scully purses her lips.

“The whys aren’t important,” Scully says, and Einstein scoffs in response.

Scully locks eyes with the younger doctor. “Doctor Einstein, the scope of what I know would take me years to explain to you, and quite frankly I still don’t have all of these answers. I’ll do my best to tell you what I know, but the entirety of my medical history is none of your business. I’ll answer what I can, and tell you what you need to know. Nothing more.”

Einstein sighs, closing her eyes with a resigned shake of her head. “How many other people do you think will test positive for the same alterations in their DNA?”

“There’s no way of knowing, but I doubt I’m the only one. I know there were…others,” she finishes at length. Not that any of them are still alive to the best of her knowledge.

“Why?”

“Because you aren’t the only person who has tested positive for these *alterations*.”

“By alterations, you mean alien DNA.”

Einstein presses her fingertips to her temples and applies pressure. “The CDC would prefer…”

“Oh don’t tell me—“

“…that it be referred to as alterations…”

“Oh for the love of God—“

“…in order to avoid the appearance of—“

Scully stops her with a flip of her wrist. “Jesus Christ,” she sighs. “The evidence is right in front of them and even still they’re denying its existence.”

Einstein leans against the table. “I don’t give a shit what they call it, Doctor Scully. I just need answers.”

“You said I wasn’t the only one. How many others have tested positive for these *alterations*, as you say?” It takes everything inside of her to not roll her eyes.

“So far?”

Scully nods, and raises her eyebrows in wait. Einstein pauses a moment. “So far we have tested and administered the vaccine to roughly 55 people since it was developed a few hours ago. We have blood results in queue for another one hundred and twelve. In those individuals, two more have tested positive for alien DNA.”

Scully drops her chin. “William…”

Einstein nods slowly. “He’s one.”

“Who’s the other?”

Einstein pauses for a second. “Was Agent Mulder ever experimented on…like you?”

“Are you suggesting that—“

“Fox Mulder also tests positive. You. William. Mulder.” Einstein points to the results on the papers. “Doctor Scully, I am not a geneticist; I am not a molecular chemist or biologist. I am about as qualified to do this as you are performing a facelift… I am wholly unqualified to determine the validity of these results.”

“What are you getting at?” Scully looks down at the papers.

“I’m saying that I don’t know what I’m dealing with. As you can see, your blood work shows the addition here,” Einstein points to a line on the page. “But, Agent Mulder’s blood work shows the addition here,” she points to a separate line on the opposite page.

“What?” Scully lifts both papers from the table and examines them closely. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Einstein pinches the bridge of her nose. “Somehow, the three of you are the only ones who test positive for this alteration in their genomes.”

“I’m sure there are others out there.”

“Well they’re not here, and you are. You believe your genome was altered as a consequence of experiments being performed on you. Even if Agent Mulder suffered similar treatments it still wouldn’t explain why his alterations show up on a different chromosome.”

Scully shakes her head and blinks rapidly as she digests the results on the papers. No. It couldn’t be. What did those bastards do to him aboard that ship? Visions of seeing Billy Miles shed his dead flesh and reborn a new person swim before her eyes. Was this what Mulder was always supposed to be?

“What about William?” Scully asks, her voice choked with emotion.

“William tested positive for both. Both alterations in the exact same places as you and Agent Mulder’s, respectively, which makes sense considering you each passed the chromosomes down to him. It also suggests the additions are dominant alleles that are passed down. Passed to him at his conception. ” 

Scully pauses only for a moment before her eyes flash as if a switch had been flicked. “Then it was before his abduction,” she whispers.

Einstein leans forward. “I’m sorry, what?”

Scully lifts her eyes from the page. “I became pregnant before Agent Mulder disappeared.”

Einstein nods. “Oh, that’s right…I heard some things over the years –things I didn’t believe, of course.”

Of course not, Scully thinks. Who would believe that Fox Mulder was abducted by aliens only to be buried alive for months on end?

Einstein continues. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

Because it means whatever happened to him happened before his abduction, Scully thinks. It means that either he was born with it, or it was done to him on that table in the bowels of the Pentagon, when his brain was sliced open by his cigarette-smoking sonofabitch father. Both of the those scenarios leave her belly burning with the implications of either situation. Every time a question is answered, another two bubble to the surface. One step forward, and two steps back.

Scully ignores Einstein’s question. “The more important question is why Agent Mulder is so sick when he tests positive for the alien additions to his DNA.” Fuck it. She’s calling it what it is. Alien.

Einstein moves over to the computer and types in her access code. “I’m still waiting for the results on his blood work, but I can tell you right now that his panel showed irregularities from the get-go.”

“Well, he’s dehydrated and—“

“No, I mean, I don’t think he has the virus. It’s something else entirely.”

“What?!”

Einstein points to the computer screen. “Look at his panel. All of the other patients I’ve seen have presented with massively depleted t-cell counts.”

“Basically AIDS,” Scully says as she crosses her arms over her chest, and wonders where her glasses are as she squints her eyes at the screen.

“No. It *is* AIDS, Doctor Scully. AIDS without the HIV. Whatever the Trojan Virus is doing is depleting T-cell counts to below the threshold that qualifies for autoimmune deficiency syndrome. These people are dying because their immune systems are shutting down, which is leaving them susceptible to a whole list of opportunistic illnesses. And we don’t know why.”

Scully sighs. “But not Mulder.”

Einstein again points at the screen. “No. His white cell count is twice the normal average. He’s fighting something. But everything else is within normal range. On top of what we’ve learned about the additions to his genome, I would venture to guess that Agent Mulder is immune to the Trojan Virus, as is William.”

Scully blanches. “Then what’s making him sick?”

“We don’t know. I’m still waiting. But it’s something. An infection or another virus from the looks of it.”

Scully stares at the younger woman as she feels her brain absorb the influx of information that’s been presented to her. She scrubs her face with her hands, sighing deeply. She’s got to get back to Mulder. “When will you know?”

Einstein shrugs. “Just waiting for the lab. They’re…understaffed.” Scully avoids her gaze. She might as well have said everyone is dead.

“I’ll start him on antibiotics and antivirals in the meantime. Call me, text me, whatever when you get the results,” Scully says as she folds the paperwork bearing the genomes of her partner and former lover, and that of her teenaged son, and stuffs them into her pants pocket. “I need to get back upstairs.”

Einstein looks at her from her computer screen. “Johns Hopkins wants me to join their team in this.”

Scully turns back. “Johns Hopkins?”

Einstein nods. “We’ve been talking for the last few hours. Seems like they have the equipment to handle the…burden.”

“You helped create the vaccine, Doctor Einstein,” Scully says. “You should be a part of its success.”

Einstein shakes her head. “I did nothing, and you know it. You created the vaccine.” Their eyes meet. “It should be you going to John’s Hopkins, Doctor Scully. Not me.”

Scully smiles softly at the younger doctor. Maybe in another world, or another place she would have jumped at the opportunity. “I’m not needed there, Doctor Einstein. This is a wonderful opportunity for you. They’re going to name libraries after you,” Scully says with a genuine smile.

Einstein’s eyes fill with tears and she regards Scully for a long moment. “I don’t know how to thank you. For everything. For saving my life.”

Scully crosses to her and wraps her arms around the young woman. “Just don’t let them win. Keep fighting.”

Einstein nods against her shoulder. “I will.”

Scully moves back to the door and pauses as it swings open. “Oh, another thing… When you head up to Hopkins, take Miller with you.”

“Why?”

Scully smiles in fond remembrance. “Because you’ll need each other in this, and I remember being–”

“CODE BLUE. CODE BLUE.” The voice blares over the speakers above. “WE HAVE A CODE BLUE IN ROOM 105. CODE BLUE IN ROOM 105.”

Scully rushes from the lab with a fast swish of the metal doors. Mulder.

—-

2 minutes earlier…

 

“Well, if she’s gonna take any more time, I might as well take a leak before she gets back.” John stands, and stretches his arms over his head. “Pick up the wrappers and trash, would ya?”

“’Kay,” William says, standing up.

William crumples up the only remaining sandwich wrapper, and winces at the harsh sound, glancing sideways at the sleeping man in the bed. Watching Mulder fight against the groggy roll of his eyes had made him tired in his own right, the exhausting weight of his illness rippling from him and palpable throughout the room. He’d almost sighed in relief when Mulder had finally succumbed to sleep.

William sits back in his chair and props his feet on the metal railing of the bed, brushing the stray crumbs from his pants. The room is still. The steady beating of the heart monitor adds an acoustic flare to the otherwise silent space, and William allows himself the chance to finally look at the man he’s been told is his father, really look at him without worry, or judgment; without someone else watching him; without worrying about offending Papa if he stares for too long, or feeling embarrassed if he says the wrong thing. It’s just him – just the two of them, really, and since his father is all but comatose, William unabashedly studies the man sleeping in the bed.

Though his face is mottled with angry blue bruises, his eyes swollen from sickness and injury, William wills himself to see beyond the ugly impediments, lingering over his father’s proud nose, and full lips. He brings his fingers to his own face to measure his features in comparison. He’d never seen a photo of them, never had anything from which he could relate or compare. All he had was Papa’s memories, relying on what he remembered of the two people he so desperately wished to know more about. Papa always said that he was a “nice blend of the two” – picking a feature here or there that reminded him of one parent or the other, but never really settling the deep-seeded desire to know more.

But as he sits before him, he sees what Papa had always meant. His own eyes were rounder, his features not as pronounced. The color of his hair definitely leaned towards his father’s traits, but that had only been a recent development. It had gotten darker as he grew, much to the delight of Papa. He never understood Papa’s trepidation with the reddish hair of his childhood, but Papa didn’t like it. Always made him cover it with a baseball hat. “It stands out,” he used to tell him. William didn’t think Papa had ever been more relieved the day that puberty hit, and his hair practically changed color overnight.

He looks down at his hands and marvels at the color of his skin next to his father’s. His nose and lips might be his, but it would seem his fair skin certainly came from his mother.

His mother.

Years of being told stories of his parents was supposed to have prepared him for this moment. Tales of heroism, and sacrifice; tales of the weird, and tales of the creepy; tales of love and of sorrow. He’d heard how his father was a legend, a true legend – a man both revered and infamous in his own right. Brilliant. Passionate. The two of them together had been a force to be reckoned with, apparently. And she…”she was a brilliant medical doctor who threw away her career when she followed him into that basement,” he remembers Papa telling him, always with a hint of bitterness he could never quite figure out, and he never dared ask.

If someone had asked him to draw his parents, paint them on a canvas, he would have drawn them younger, to be honest. He’d envisioned them younger. He’d envisioned them at their prime – mentally and physically. Almost super hero-like in their dimensions to his young impressionable mind. He didn’t picture them like this: his father sick and dying in a bed next to him, and his mother so distant and cold to him that he might as well be a stranger.

But he is a stranger to her.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting from all of his dreams and fantasies. Was he expecting them to welcome him with open arms, immediately recognizing him for who he was on sight, and sight alone? Did he expect them to cry tears of joy as they touched his face, telling him how much they’d missed him? Did he expect them to pick up where they left off, as if the last fifteen years hadn’t existed?

He certainly didn’t expect this. This awkwardness. This coldness. He’d received better greetings from the surly game sellers when they traipsed through camp every month. A part of him was just hoping that… Oh, hell he doesn’t know…

He’d been told so much about them. They were fierce, and strong, brilliant and courageous. But these people? They weren’t his parents. He didn’t know these people. He’d waited so long for this moment, for this chance to finally see them again…

The reality of his parents certainly didn’t match the parents of his dreams, and a part of him wonders if maybe they feel the same way about him.

As he feels his throat tighten and his eyes prickle with tears, it’s with sudden clarity that he realizes that maybe he liked the mother and father of his dreams more.

William wipes his cheek with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Maybe he and Papa should just—

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!!!!!!

William jolts from the chair and stares between the beeping monitor and the comatose man, nervously panicking that somehow his father had heard him. That somehow he caused this. Panicked tears flood his eyes.

“Papa!”

John exits the bathroom with wide eyes, hastily zipping up the fly of his dirtied jeans as he scurries towards the bed.

“What happened?”

“I-I-I don’t know,” William stammers, cheeks red with emotion. “I was just sitting here, and then—“

A nurse pushes the door open, and runs over to Mulder’s bed with an urgency William has never seen before. Checking the monitors again, she pushes a red button behind the bed.

“We have a code blue. CODE BLUE! We need a crash cart in here STAT!”

She untangles her stethoscope from her around her neck and places it against Mulder’s chest, closing her eyes to listen for any sound. A shake of her head, and she tosses the instrument onto the table beside her, pressing a button on the monitor to silence the machine.

Hours seem to pass in the space of a moment and the nurse darts off to the door, hollering down the hallway. “WE NEED A CRASH CART!”

William eyes the machine as the line jumps wildly, his father’s heart rate erratic and out of control. “I didn’t mean it,” William whispers to himself, and John looks at him sideways.

With a curse, the nurse darts from the room, and William is left to stare at his father as suddenly the erratic pulse rate on the monitor drops to nothing. A straight line.

“Shit!” John gasps, moving to the bed and manually dropping the back to lay flat. He places his hands on Mulder and presses firmly into his chest, beginning the compressions that will keep his body alive. “Where’s the fucking nurse?” John grumbles.

He’s seen death. He’s been around death. Just another part of life, he’d always been told. William is unprepared to feel the sudden loss of a person in such a small space, as if the absence of their soul could be felt. William stands at the foot of the bed, eyes wide and frozen with shock, unable to look away from the scene in front of him.

John’s forehead beads with sweat. One, two, three, four, five. He breathes life into the Mulder, and William finds himself inhaling alongside his father.

One…two…three…four…five…. 

The bed shakes with each harsh push into his chest.

“You gotta do it,” Papa growls at him.

“Wha-?” William asks tearfully, confusion etched across his face.

“Do it,” he repeats. 

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

They stare at each other. Finally, understanding dawns, and William’s mouth drops.

“But you said…”

“I know what I said,” John says, breathing heavily. 

One, two, three, four, five. Breath.

“But he’s your father. Do it.”

William gulps. The nod of his head is infinitesimal.

—

The sound of her heels on the concrete steps distract her from the rushing of her heartbeat in her chest. He was stable when she had left. More than stable. He had even opened his eyes. He had been fine. Tears blur her eyes as she rounds the corner to the never-ending hallway that leads to his room, fearful that the only man she’s loved for the last twenty-four years won’t be there to greet her on the other side.

“What happened?” the nurse squeaks from inside the room.

“Heart rate is steady,” a second nurse replies. “I thought you said—“

“He was crashing. I saw it!” The first nurse rubs her forehead, and John steps towards her.

“What happened?” Scully says, cupping Mulder’s cheek before turning her gaze to John.

“He was coding, and then the nurse,” he gestures to the woman on the other side of the bed, “ran out to get a cart. I started CPR, and then it just…went back to normal,” he finishes slowly, tucking his hands in his pockets with a sideways glance at William.

“Vitals are normal, Doctor Scully.” The nurse wraps her stethoscope around her neck.

John nods with a sigh of relief, moving to stand beside William. He wraps his arm protectively around trembling teen’s shoulders. “Maybe it was a machine malfunction…”

“Maybe,” the nurse says distractedly, fiddling with the buttons on the monitor.

“Can I borrow your stethoscope, Rhonda?” Scully asks, holding out her hand to the nurse who hands over the device and steps to the side, giving Scully room to move.

She presses it against his chest, lifting her wrist to watch the tick of the her watch. After a few seconds, she frowns, looking over at the numbers on the screen with a shake of her head. “Machine seems to be reading his pulse accurately.” The nurse nods, pressing a button on the screen which sends a paper read out streaming into her hands.

“Here are his vitals for the last hour or so.”

Scully takes the long strip and eyes it critically, brows knitted in confusion. The nurse stands over her shoulder, pointing her pen at various point. “His pulse went from 84, which is–”

“High,” Scully breathes, and the nurse nods.

“For his condition, yes, it’s high, but then it started to drop here…,” she points to a position on the strip, “and here…”

Scully turns to John and William, pointing to the paper in her hand. “What was Mulder doing about,” she looks down at the paper, “five minutes before he coded?”

Scully watches William’s throat bob convulsively, and John clears his throat with a shrug. “We were talking. Old cases.”

“He was up and talking?” Scully asks with raised brows, and both John and William nod.

“Well, not up, per se. But talkin’, yeah,” John says, rubbing William’s arm.

“Did anything upset him, or…?”

“He seemed fine,” John says, looking over at William. “Didn’t he?”

William nods with furrowed brows. “He uh–” he clears his throat. “He was tired. Couldn’t keep his eyes open.”

“Doctor Scully,” the nurse says adjusting the cannula across Mulder’s face. “His vitals appear stable. Why does it–”

“His vitals are not only stable, but improving,” Scully says with a shake of her head. “And it just doesn’t make any sense.”

“He’s had a steady stream of the vaccine and fluids since his arrival,” the nurse tells Scully, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. “This is a good thing.”

“Right, but he’s not…” Scully trails off, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She pauses, closing her eyes. “Mulder isn’t sick with the virus.”

“What? What do you mean?” John asks, dropping his arm from around William and stepping beside her.

“That’s what I was downstairs talking about. Mulder’s immune to the virus. Like me. Like William. Whatever was done to him has rendered him immune.”

John shakes his head. “Then what the hell is making him so sick?”

Folding the strip of paper and slipping it between the pages of the chart, she shakes her head with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know. An infection, maybe.”

“Infection,” John repeats.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Hey, Rhonda,” she says, and the younger nurse turns to Scully, pausing her pen mid stroke. “I’d like to add doses of ciprofloxacin, levofloxacin and if the hospital still has it, Tamiflu or Relenza.”

“You think he has the flu?” John asks, and Scully shrugs.

“I don’t know what I think at this point.”

“Doctor Scully, he’s waking up,” Rhonda says, and Scully gasps with a jolt, moving to his side.

She leans over the bed, softly stroking the side of his raspy face. “Mulder,” she whispers, and her breath catches as she watches his eyelids flutter. Relief floods her, and she feels her knees threaten to give out. “Hi,” she smiles tearfully, and it’s like being taken back to another time when he opened his eyes to look at her after awakening from the dead.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes with the new meds,” the nurse says, patting Scully’s back with a smile. The wheels of the cart creak as it’s pushed from the room.

“What happened?” he asks groggily. “There was beeping…”

“Mulder…” She turns to the source of the pat on her shoulder, seeing John gesturing to the door.

“We’re just gonna get some air,” he says, eyeing Mulder before wrapping his arm around William and leaving the room. When the door closes with a click, the room shrouds in silence. Finally a reprieve from the madness.

Mulder searches her face and watches a thousand emotions dance across her features. She’s aged ten years in the span of a few hours, the burden she’s carried evident in each line that worries her face. If he didn’t know her, it wouldn’t be recognizable. But he’s spent over twenty years beside her, over a decade waking up next to her. To anyone else, she might appear tired, stressed. But over the years, he’s learned to recognize the signals even before she did.

“How are you?” he asks hoarsely as the bed dips with her weight.

She avoids the question outright. “The good news it that the vaccine appears to be helping, but the bad news is we don’t know what’s making you sick, yet. I’m still waiting on news from Einstein, but it would appear that whatever it is, it’s improving now. Your vitals are getting stronger. Quite frankly, I don’t even care how – I just…” she trails off.

The trembling of her lips betray the false bravado of her voice, and he reaches up and brushes his thumb along her cheek. His palm fits against her cheek like it’s molded for such a purpose. He can’t remember the last time he’s touched her face, felt the warmth and softness of her skin tickle his palm, and she tilts her face into his caress, seeking his touch as much as he seeks to offer it.

“Scully,” he breathes, wanting to connect with her, needing to connect with her, but she shakes her head, pushing his hand down.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, smiling unconvincingly.

“It’s *me* Scully,” he seethes, and her eyes meet his, catching her breath in her throat. “Don’t tell me you’re *fine*,” he finishes softly.

With her face framed by his hands she can’t look away. She’s forced to look directly at him, as his eyes drill holes into her soul. If she could look away, maybe she wouldn’t crumble in front of him. If she could look away, maybe she could keep her steal reserve about her, only succumbing to her emotions behind closed doors on her own time, her own schedule. If she could look away, maybe she could stay in control, maybe she could—

“Talk to me,” he pleads in a whisper, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

Her voice catches. Swallowing, she takes a deep breath, and meets his eyes. “A lot has happened.”

“I might have been in and out of consciousness, but even I know that,” he says, dropping his hands from her face. A moment passes. “Scully…” he prompts again, reaching out and laying his hand on her knee.

“I can’t even begin…” her voice is thick. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

He nods, and strokes her leg reassuringly. “I know.”

She scoffs and wipes her face. “No, you don’t know, Mulder.” Her lip trembles, and she ducks her head, toying with a loose thread on the hospital blanket.

Seconds pass. “Then tell me. Help me understand.”

“I just…,” her voice catches. “God Mulder, I don’t even know where to start. And you’re still healing. I shouldn’t be—“

“I’m fine, Scully,” he rasps. “Please. Just…,” He closes his eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Just talk to me.”

She concedes with a long sigh. “Where do you want me to start?”

Mulder gestures to the door with his chin. “How about we start with the big pink elephant in the room, and the teenage boy who doesn’t look remarkably like Assistant Director Skinner anymore.”

She chuckles at the memory, remembering the sweetness of that moment – one of the last moments they had as a family. William held securely in the arms of his father and Mulder’s lips pressed softly to hers in a promise of a million tomorrows, a million more moments just like that – a million moments that never came. She’s lost in her own thoughts, lost in a million moments that were never meant to be.

“I can’t believe it’s him,” she whispers as her face crumples and a sob escapes.

“Is it?” he asks, feeling his eyes sting with a mixture of relief, sadness, and mostly regret.

She nods into her lap, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Blood tests confirmed it.” She meets his tearful eyes, and swipes her fingers across his cheeks. “It’s him,” she whispers with a single nod. “Our son, Mulder.”

He pulls her against him before she can tell him otherwise, using his newfound strength to hold her as tightly against him as he possibly can. Burying her face into his neck, her breaths are muffled against the sweat-soaked material of the shirt. “I was so afraid that you’d never see your son again.”

“Me too,” he can’t help but say, turning his face into her shoulder, and breathing in the fading scent he’d grown used to living by throughout the years. Even under the sour stench of stress, she still smelled the same. Like home. Over the years, he’d never needed a reason to pull her close. Whether in line at Starbucks, laying beside each other in some dingy motel room, or waiting for their luggage after a Caribbean getaway, they’d grown used to cleaving to one another out of affection and love. Now it takes a crisis to be able to touch her, the imminent loss of life. What he wouldn’t give to be able to hold her when her tears weren’t soaking into one of his shirts.

She pulls away and swipes the tears from her face. Appraising his face, she looks him over with the critical eye. “God, you’re looking so much better,” she marvels with a shocked shake of her head. “I can’t believe how quickly you’re healing. It’s a miracle.”

Something tickles the back of his mind, a memory from years prior when he was told that his astonishing recovery from the bowels of death was ‘miraculous’ in nature. If a miracle is the divine work by the hand of God, his recovery was anything but miraculous; at least not by the hand of any God that anyone he knew would pray to. It was alien, pure and simple. What else would be responsible for his divine rebirth, his escape from death? He wonders who he can thank for his current rebirth. Was it truly God, he wonders?

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “Come on Scully. I’ve survived far sexier things than some measly virus, like jumping on moving trains…”

“Which then exploded,” she counters.

“Fine. That time I was held in a Russian Gulag, then? I survived that with both arms intact.” He lifts his arms in demonstration.

She smirks with a tilt of her head. “How about when you survived the infestation of tobacco beetles in your lungs?”

He winces with a disgusted grimace, rubbing his chest at the disturbing memory. “Don’t remind me.” She cackles suddenly, and the sound vibrates in his chest. “Oh sure, laugh at my suffering all you want Scully, but you and I both remember how terrible that recovery was.” 

“Oh, I remember,” she says, watching his eyes brighten at her laughter. “I remember you not taking kindly to the doctor’s orders against strenuous activity,” she says, holding her fingers in air quotes.

“And I remember another doctor overriding those doctor’s specific instructions, citing medical evidence about endorphins and blood supply helping in the healing process.”

She averts her eyes as her cheeks tinge pink, and he pulls at her pant leg suggestively. His voice grows dark. “I remember that part of the recovery very well.”

She lifts her eyes to his mouth, biting her bottom lip. “Me too.”

She meets his eyes, and watches them volley down to her mouth. With each passing millisecond the burning clench of her belly grows stronger, spreading downwards and outwards into her fingertips. He cups her cheek, and she finds herself unable to stop him as his mouth inches down to hers. She knows they shouldn’t. Everything’s still so complicated, so unresolved and unsettled. But she can’t help the way her breath hitches when she feels his lips flutter against hers, so long denied in their absence from each other, and just as she opens her mouth…

…the door to the room slams open, and Scully jumps from the edge of the bed like she did when Bill had walked in on her and Thomas Rubery in the tenth grade.

“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt,” John says, sticking his head around the door.

“What is it, John?” Scully asks, smoothing her shirt down the front of her.

Before John can get a word out, another man enters the room with urgency only a man of his type brings.

“We need to get the hell out of the city.” Assistant Director Skinner moves into the room and throws down a large pack. “Pack everything you think we’ll need, Agent Scully. We don’t have much time.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she asks, staring down at the dark bag.

John lifts his hand towards Scully. “We ran into him in the hallway,” he explains.

“The nurse told me which room Mulder was in,” Skinner says urgently, opening and closing drawers and cabinets as he fills his black duffel.

“They’re declaring martial law,” John explains, “and all exits and entrances to the city will be closed off.” He takes his sack from the corner of the room and tosses it to William. “Fill it, son,” he tells the teen, and William nods with a sideways glance to Mulder quickly turning and opening their sack.

“Can he travel?” Skinner finally lifts his head to Mulder.

“Uh…” Scully looks to Mulder who nods with a confused shrug. “I-I think so.”

“I’m fine, Walter. What do we need to do?” Mulder swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Good, because if we’re going to get out of here, we need to leave now,” Skinner warns. “Pack anything you think might be necessary. We can try to make a run for more supplies in a few days, but take as much as you can carry on your backs.”

“Antibiotics, pain relievers, wound dressings, syringes, saline,” John ticks off, and Mulder cocks his head curiously.

“Done this before?”

John clears his throat, stuffing gauze pads into the pockets of the bag. “We uh… we spent some time living outside the bounds of civilization. We’re used to surviving on whatever we can fit into a backpack.”

William walks back over to the empty duffel on the bed and drops an armful of saline bags on top. “Keep your socks dry, and your teeth clean right, Papa?” The sideways smile that William shoots John robs Mulder of the breath in his chest.

“He calls you Papa?” he whispers, and John pauses his packing, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, Mulder…” John begins but Mulder waves his hand and clears his throat.

“I’m gonna wash up. You guys seem to have this armageddon lifestyle thing down,” he says glibly.

Scully grips his bicep, but he shrugs her off. “Mulder, you need to take it easy. Just stay in bed while we get everything,” but Mulder brushes her off.

“Do you need any help?” William calls from the other side of the room.

“Jesus Christ, I’m FINE!” Mulder bellows, slamming the bathroom door behind him. He doesn’t recognize the man he sees in the mirror. He’s only been a father for a few hours, but already he’s turned into his own. The water is ice cold as he splashes it on his face, and he gasps as it prickles against his heated skin. He deserves the shock to his system.

Scully purses her lips as her chest blazes in embarrassment, avoiding the eye contact of each man in the room as she walks over to the table and retrieves her cell phone. “Mulder will need another course of antivirals and antibiotics.”

“What else should we pack, Dana?” John asks, looking through the deep duffel bag.

“We’ve got 25 rolls of gauze and tape, Band-Aids, sterilizing pads, a couple bottles of rubbing alcohol, six IV bags and extra tubing…”

She pauses by the door. “I’ll grab what I can down in the lab, but take whatever medications you can grab from this crash cart. I have my cellphone.”

“If it’s not bolted down to the room, take it,” Skinner says, checking the rounds in the clip of his service weapon. He pushes the clip into the handle with a resounding *chink* and secures it on his belt.

No one notices the man standing in the door frame of the bathroom, his hair wet and finger combed, and his face pink and fresh from the burst of cold water. “What about cars?”

They all turn to him, pausing only a second before returning to their tasks.

“We’ll have to figure something out, but I’m not against stealing one at this point,” Skinner says almost flippantly.

Scully’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline, and she smirks at Mulder.

“You know it’s serious when the Assistant Director of the FBI is allowing for felonies to be committed.” Mulder smirks.

“I’m going to go see what I can find,” Skinner says and then checks his watch. “We have thirty six minutes to get out of the city. If I’m not back in fifteen, leave without me. Do you understand?”

Scully drops her eyes with morbid understanding. If he wasn’t back in time, assume the worst, he might as well have said.

“I’m going to head down to the lab,” Scully says. “Keep packing,” she instructs the room, and Mulder salutes her back as she darts from the room, her heels clicking on the hard linoleum.

William tilts his head and grimaces. “Has she always been able to run in those shoes?”

“Yes,” John and Mulder respond in unison, and it takes everything in Mulder turns to John with a frown, avoiding the eyes of the teen watching the interaction closely.

—

29 MINUTES UNTIL SHUTDOWN

 

Scully throws a bag on the bed, filled to the brim with supplies. “I’ve got more than enough doses of the antivirals and antibiotics for you, Mulder. I threw in a couple Trojan vaccinations, too.”

“I thought you were gonna say Trojan protections,” he leers quietly, smirking at the way he can still make her blush. Naturally, she ignores him.

“Speaking of unwanted diseases that can be transmitted through bodily contact, Einstein got your test results back,” she says, turning to him as the zipper is pulled closed on the bag.

“Yeah?”

“Anthrax,” she says simply. Curtly, even.

Mulder’s face falls in astonishment. “Anthrax? How the hell—“

“You tell me, Mulder,” she says in a hushed whisper. “Do you have any idea how you could have been exposed to something like this?”

Mulder shakes his head, staring at a blank space on the wall as he wracks his brain over for answers. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Actually, it does,” she sighs. “Your symptoms are–were–classic bacterial anthrax. Fever, sweating, flu-like symptoms… It was textbook, actually.”

“But why—“

“The whys we can get into later, Mulder. Someone clearly did this to you, and while I’m surprised, I’m certainly not shocked given our history and what’s been going on.”

Mulder nods. “Someone wanted it to look like I died of the virus.”

“Yes.”

“But I’m immune. Like you.”

Her chin dimples with a lift of her brow. “It would appear so.” She pauses for a second. “Do you understand how lucky you are to be alive?”

His brows furrow. “It’s not the first time they’ve failed, Scully, and I hardly doubt that–”

“Mulder, bacterial anthrax infection is extremely difficult to treat, especially when it’s as advanced as yours was. It’s a miracle you’re improving, to be honest.”

Miracle. Mulder eyes John and William on the other side of the room as they sit side by side, taking inventory of their supplies, the deep tickling in his mind creeping back into his consciousness.  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s a miracle, all right.”

—

8 MINUTES UNTIL SHUTDOWN…

 

Bodies of those too ill to make it to the hospital sit propped behind the wheel of their cars that sit idly along the now placid bridge. Their seat belts hold them forever to the seats like a coffin in a grave. Troops in full riot gear line the sides of the bridge, prepping their weapons as Mulder, Scully, and their small group scurry past unnoticed.

—

7 MINUTES UNTIL SHUTDOWN…

 

John’s truck still sits where he left it, tightly wedged between two sedans and other deserted vehicles. Trapped without enough time to push the other cars out of the way, they quickly gather necessities from the truck, and make their way to the end of the bridge where Skinner is already working on hot-wiring a large SUV.

“Where will you guys be?” Skinner asks after he turns over the ignition, crawling out from the small space under the steering wheel.

“What? No, you’re coming with us,” Scully says.

“I couldn’t possibly,” he says, looking between the two other agents.

“We’re not separating, sir,” Scully explains, her eyes fierce. “ We’re in this together. You’re coming back to our—Mulder’s house with us.” She holds the door open while John and William slide into the backseat.

Skinner glances at Mulder, who shrugs. “I’ve learned to not argue with her when she takes that tone.”

Mulder looks over at Scully with a smirk, hoping his remark would get him a reaction, an eyebrow, at the very least, but instead he catches John rifling through his knapsack and handing William a protein bar, making the boy smile a thanks before tearing into it. He only feels a stab a jealousy when John puts his arm around the boy and says something to him, making him nod his head as he bites off a chunk of the bar.

“Get in the back,” Mulder tells Skinner, turning away from the two in the backseat, his tone more clipped than he wants to admit.

“There’s plenty of room back here, sir,” John calls out, pulling William closer to his end. ”Scootch,” he tells the boy, and William slides towards John mid-chew. 

Skinner winces as he looks over the other cars. Flash grenades explode in the distance, echoing off the tall buildings of downtown. Smoke billows from somewhere, rising high above the city landscape. If they didn’t get out now, he thinks, they might never get out.

—

6 MINUTES UNTIL SHUTDOWN…

 

“Get in the damn car, sir. We’re running out of time!” Mulder shouts over the roar of the military vehicles, sliding into the driver’s seat, and revving the idle engine. With a quick nod, Skinner relents and climbs in the backseat behind Mulder.

Maneuvering around cars and over sidewalks, the SUV bumps and bounces as the large tires roll over anything in its path. Scully grips the handle above the window, and glances sideways at Mulder as he focuses in stern concentration at avoiding the occasional wandering pedestrian or corpse lying in the middle of the road, the only evidence of attempt at escaping their imminent demise is their car door left ajar.

Finally the road levels, and the sudden shift from the jerking and bumpy ride to the paved surface of the highway makes their bodies tingle from the loss of vibration. After what seems like forever, twinkling red and blue lights of a police barricade alert them to the city’s boundaries, and Scully finds herself holding her breath as they weave their way through the k-rails with other cars desperately trying to flee. The car rolls to a stop, and Scully turns in her seat, nervously looking to William in the backseat. John’s hand rests protectively and comfortingly on William’s knee as the younger boy shifts restlessly in his seat.

“Why are we stopping?” he asks.

Mulder looks above the other cars in front of him, and shakes his head twice. “I don’t know. There must be some sort of check point.” He inches the SUV forward. Red flares line the road where their cars sit idly awaiting their chance for freedom.

Scully looks at the clock on the radio. “Mulder,” she whispers, and he turns to her. With a jut of her chin, he looks at the clock and nods once, his throat bobbing as he forces a thick swallow down his throat. They are out of time.

“What should I do?” he asks her quietly, watching the brake lights from the cars in front of them light her face in hues of red. They move in slow motion towards the barricade.

“Looks like they’re moving now. They must be letting people through,” she says.

Mulder’s brow wrinkles as he sees cars suddenly turning from their spots in line, heading towards them from the opposite direction.

“Shit,” he sighs.

“What is it?” Skinner asks from the back seat.

“Everyone’s turning around, they’re not letting people through. We didn’t make it in time.” He scrubs his face with his hands before pressing the back of his head against his headrest and inching forward to the armed marine on his left.

Skinner sighs, reaching behind him. “Let me do the talking, ‘kay?” He eyes Mulder from the backseat and Mulder nods, rolling down his boss’s window as they approach the gas mask-wearing man.

“Sir, we cannot let you exit the city. You’ll have to turn around,” the Marine says in a clipped, well-rehearsed tone, slightly muffled from the mask.

“I’m FBI,” Skinner says, opening his badge. “These people are with me, and they are in protective custody.” He gestures to his fellow passengers and the marine bends down, glancing inside the vehicle. His eyes linger on William for a second longer than necessary and Scully’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Sir, we cannot let you exit the city,” he repeats, but Skinner pushes forward.

“Listen son, you can call the Director of the FBI right now and he’d give you permission for me to exit this city. I’ve shown you my credentials. Let us pass.”

The young officer looks at Skinner’s credentials one final time, eyeing the bald man skeptically before shaking his head with an annoyed shrug. Realizing it isn’t worth his time or effort, he motions with his fingers. “Pull forward.”

A collective sigh rings throughout the SUV as everyone releases their held breaths, driving through the narrow exit path lined with military vehicles and police cruisers.

—

The I-95 South is practically deserted as they make their way south towards a place Scully once had called home.

Questions and worries flitter through her mind, robbing her of speech and only making the deafening silence in the SUV more unbearable. Worries about William; worries about Mulder; worries about what happens now, and what they are going to do about food, let alone any medical treatment that might be necessary. Questions about what caused all of this; about what those blood reports revealed to her; questions surrounding who made Mulder sick, and for what purpose…

“I can feel you thinking,” she hears Mulder say softly as he reaches across the console and covers her hand with his own. She bites her lip, and turns to the window, accepting his offer of comfort. Once upon a time, he used to say those words to her when the silence became too much – a way to rescue her from her mind with a reminder of their connection. Even after all of these years, he can still read her like his favorite novel. She turns her palm up and threads her fingers between his, and he responds with a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

She scoffs, and turns to him with an incredulous glare.

“Twenty-three years together, Scully. When have I ever been wrong?” he asks with a wink, bringing her hand to his lips for the softest of kisses before returning it to her lap. She rolls her eyes, and shakes her head, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. She almost succeeds.

Maybe he’s right though, she thinks. They’d survived the toxic poison of alien blood, abductions, freaks and monsters, murderers and sociopaths. They’d survived alien viruses, and near-death trips to the Antarctic. They’d survived medical experiments, cancer, and stays in the psychiatric ward. They’d even survived death itself.

Maybe there is hope, she reassures herself as she pulls their hands closer to her body. Mulder looks over at her with a small smile, and she meets his eyes.

“Look at it this way, Scully. It’s our first viral apocalypse.”

She smiles with a roll of her eyes, patting their hands with her free hand. “Just when you think we’ve seen it all…” She relaxes her head against the back of the headrest with a sigh.

The three men in the back all watch the display with varying level of regard and interest. One with longing. One with wonder. And one with regret.

54 miles to go.


	3. Pockets Full of Posey

CHAPTER 3

William remembers the burst of emotion as they had entered Mulder’s home, as if someone had opened a set of floodgates. The questions that had been restrained during their long drive out of D.C. broke free, rushing out of everyone’s mouths at once. “What are we supposed to do?” and “How do we stop this?” and “Just what the hell is even happening?” were thrown around as the adults barked questions at each other, only to be met with another question. Never an answer or solution. In the mad flurry of demands, they’d been too caught in the moment to see him walking around the room, touring the dwelling his parents had once called home.   
It was Dana who noticed him standing there in the corner when he returned, and she quieted everyone with a simple raise of her hand before suggesting with a gentle tone that he go lay down. Feeling overwhelmed by the events of the last few days, he’d been too exhausted to question his dismissal and looked to Papa for approval, meeting his eyes with a soft nod. With directions to take the room on the right just after the bathroom and a muttered good night, he had trudged up the stairs without looking back and collapsed with exhaustion onto the guest bed.

 

Now, just a short while later and unable to sleep, William lies under the heavy blankets, finding himself caught off guard by the sporadic quiet that’s woven into the random bits of abrupt commotion downstairs. Occasionally there’s a hush that feels as if it falls with ease upon the grown-ups, no longer burdened with worry or the fear of what was yet to come. 

It’s an intermittent silence in a house full of people that is occasionally interrupted with a hearty bark of laughter or a playful argument regarding the time that they’d tried to apprehend a man, and who really said what, and who really dropped their gun. William finds their effortless camaraderie unsettling, proof of a life before his existence that remains only a bedtime story to him. 

William crosses his arms beneath his head and stares at the plain white ceiling above him. He waits for the moments to pass until his eyes adjust to the darkness in the room, allowing him to see the foreign shadows cast by someone else’s furnishings. In his short lifetime, William’s become fluent in the unspoken language that lay within temporary housing and deciphering the vibrations that resonate within each dwelling. Each residence he had stayed at with Papa felt similar to the last; empty. ‘Feels good, feels home-y,’ Papa would always say and William would agree, settling into yet another timeworn couch. 

But he finds this house to be unusual.

Its exterior is deceivingly simplistic with its chipping white paint and semi enclosed porch, its roof that, even in the dead of night, is visibly in need of repair. It sits remotely in the middle of several acres of rolling fields, isolated from the rest of the world as if it’s desperate to remain hidden and unnoticed. Yet inside feels complex and tangled, like the inner workings of a living organism, its ratty old bones pulsating with energy and a head full of ghosts. 

Under the thick layer of dust that coats the endless clutter, his parents’ memories seem to hunker down in every corner, determined to survive by hiding in the most inconspicuous places. William felt the contentment in front of the toaster in the kitchen and the restlessness between the couch cushions in the living room, even after his parents had hurriedly cleaned up the mess from a previous fight that Mulder refused to talk about. He felt the staleness a few steps from the master bedroom, the air impassive and brittle.

But the worst was the office. Like the heavy smoke of a fire, desperation billows from beneath the closed door, acrid with the hint of turmoil and dense with desolation.

William shudders at the recollection, and pulls the blanket to his chin. 

“He said *what* to you, Mulder?” he hears Papa ask loudly. “That smoking S.O.B. is something else.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he hears Dana reply, and, even with only knowing her for a few hours, William can hear the sarcasm meticulously layered over the sadness in her voice. 

When he was just nine years old, a young woman named Miss Mallory that had hair down to her rear end had found her way to one of the many camps they had resided in, and immediately took it upon herself to homeschool William and the other young children. After a few days stay, she had scrounged up a few old text books and put together a very basic curriculum for their appropriate age groups. Simple math problems, American history, a little bit of science, and english.

One day, Miss Mallory gave him and the other two children in his age group an assignment. A short essay in response to the question, “If you could be rid of one emotion, what would it be, and why?” Nine year old William thought long and hard about his assignment, going back and forth for three days before finally settling on ‘sadness.’ He surmised that if no one was able to feel sadness, then the cause of the emotion would be eradicated as well. In his young naivete, he figured if you take away the effect, then the cause became automatically meaningless. 

His essay had earned him a sunflower sticker and a “Well done!” scribbled in the top right corner of the paper with red marker, Miss Mallory’s equivalent to an A. William had been proud of himself, proud of his answer.

Tonight as he lay there in the guest bed with the old ratty comforter and lumpy pillows, he yawns as he listens to Dana and Mulder’s voices below him telling a story from their lifetime before. It isn’t sadness he would rid himself of, he thinks to himself as his parents run through his sleepy mind. It’s utter disappointment. 

\----

Downstairs, moments before...

“I’m going to cut to the chase here, because I’m tired but I won’t be able to sleep until I get some answers,” Skinner says as he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “What the hell is going on?”

Scully clears her throat, then sighs. “We’re calling it the Trojan Virus-”

“I thought it was the Spartan Virus?” Skinner asks, immediately tossing Scully a look of apology for interrupting. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Scully replies with a shake of her head. “It was originally called the Spartan Virus, as well as a few other names thanks to the media. Aeneid Virus, Mockingjay Virus...”

“Like a serial killer,” Mulder mutters. Scully, John, and Skinner all turn to Mulder with various looks of confusion on their face. Mulder continues, “As soon as the media catches wind that a serial killer is loose, the first thing they want to do is give him a name, and they throw them around like wet noodles until one sticks. The Night Stalker, The Boston Strangler, The Milwaukee Cannibal, Spartan Virus, Mockingjay Virus, Trojan Virus… Not exactly creative, if you ask me.”

The three stare at Mulder for another moment, before Scully says, “Right. Anyway, as you know, Agent Einstein and I have managed to develop a vaccine using my own DNA,” she begins. Skinner, Mulder, and John listen intently as she relays every bit of information she’s managed to gather within the last thirty-six hours. John lets out a low whistle as she finishes. 

“That’s not all,” she adds. “I have it on good authority, though I’m struggling to believe it myself, that CGB Spender is alive.”

“Alive?” Skinner asks. “I don’t believe it, that’s impossible.”

John shifts his gaze at the stairway, towards the direction William who lay sleeping upstairs, unfazed by the news.

“Believe it,” Mulder says dryly. “And, call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure he’s behind my contracting anthrax.”

Scully frowns. “Mulder?”

“Spartanburg, South Carolina. That’s where I found him tucked away in a safe haven with half a face and a, uh-” He taps his finger on the dip below his throat.

“Tracheostomy,” Scully provides. 

“That,” Mulder says. “Anyway, after regurgitating a few Google statistics, and the always helpful ‘neither you nor I can save humanity from extinction,’ I left with the help of Agent Miller.”

“He said *what* to you, Mulder?” John shakes his head. “That smoking S.O.B. is something else.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Scully says to John, then turns to Mulder. “How did you find him?”

Mulder gestures towards the now cleaned up mess that had resulted from the earlier fight. “My visitor.”

Skinner stifles a yawn and leans his exhausted body back into the couch. “So, what are we supposed to do now?” 

“Right now?” Mulder asks. “Right now, we survive.”

Mulder’s words weigh heavily on everyone in the room, igniting a simmering tension that had only recently dissipated. Skinner hisses ‘shit’ under his breath, as Scully watches John shift his gaze to the stairs. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she says, keeping her voice low. “It’s been a long day for everyone. He’s probably fast asleep.”

John rubs his face with the palms of his hands, then lays a softened gaze upon Scully. “It’s been a long *week* for us, but he’s a strong kid. He’ll be right as rain come tomorrow.”

Scully looks to Mulder, who offers her a half smile, the tweak of his lips a sign of encouragement. “You two seem close,” she says to John. 

“Years of spending most of your time together will do that, I suppose,” John replies.

“Years?” Mulder asks with raised eyebrows. He watches as John’s gaze volleys from him to Scully, before John releases a low whistle and chuffs.

“I guess it’s been about, uh, ten or eleven years now,” John answers as he scratches at the skin underneath his beard and chuckles. “Wow, it’s crazy how fast time flies. One minute I was getting acquainted with a young boy, and then I blinked and it’s over a decade later.”

“Eleven years,” Mulder repeats. His words come out slowly as if he’s struggling to digest the information, like a bite of food moving through his gut that was too big to swallow. “You’ve had our son- John, how? Why?”

“It’s, uh,” John says. “Well, it’s a long story…”

\---

2005

The road kicked up dust as he pulled down the winding driveway towards the white farm house. Unseasonably hot and humid for the early spring, John swiped at the sweat on his brow, glancing in his side mirrors for the hundredth time since he entered the expansive state, but all he saw was the falling remnants of the dusty earth settling back to the ground. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find behind him each time he checked, but it certainly felt as if something was amiss. 

It’d been sixteen hours since Monica had shared her secret. Sixteen hours and nineteen minutes to be exact, but he told himself he wasn’t counting. The betrayal and anguish etched across the skin of her face haunted his mind every time he thought about her. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her - thinking of what she had done. She never should have taken that meeting, he told himself for the hundredth time, and the knowledge that her actions had ultimately led him here made him hate her even more. Hate her because it forced her hand and his, ultimately choosing a life for each of them that he didn’t want. 

It was never supposed to be like this, he thought as he pulled to a stop in front of the white farmhouse. It was for the boy’s protection, it had always been about his protection. William was supposed to have been left alone. He was supposed to grow up with a family, a family who didn’t have to look over their shoulders, or check their rearview mirrors for black sedans following suspiciously. A family that didn’t have to run from evil, chasing swirls of cigarette smoke and crouching in fear from bright lights in the sky. He was supposed to grow up happy and healthy. 

He only hoped he got to him before They did. 

The land was still, but a gentle breeze blew through the tall grass, rippling the glittering blades in the warm wind. With the exception of the American flag waving proudly and starkly against the white background of the plain farmhouse, the home was void of the appearance that anyone actually lived there. Other than the Chevy that appeared more rust than red, John wondered if he had pulled up to the wrong address. No bike. No toys. No sign that any child lived there, especially a little boy. Reaching into the car, he pulled the file from the front seat again, checking the information on the adoption placement record. 

“3194 Willow Rd, home of Frank, 44, Marjorie, 41. Male infant, ‘William Doe’ (last name withheld at request of Biological Mother) placed in their care for the purpose of closed adoption on May 4, 2002. Biological parental relinquish signed May 2, 2002. Biological Mother’s Information: withheld. Biological Father’s Information: withheld.” 

Double checking the address marker on the front of the house, John closed the door with a sigh, ignoring the mental protests that tell him to turn around and let the boy be, and strode up the porch with a purpose. He had to protect him. 

\--- 

“Mr. Doggett,” Marjorie started, leaning forward to brace her arms on the table. “What you have to understand is-” 

“I was told he would be here,” John implored, pressing his pointer finger into the weathered wood of the kitchen table. The mousey, demure woman folded her napkin, avoiding the piercing blue eyes of the man seated in front of her. 

She’d always worried about the boy’s health, even before he came to them, worried that there had been more to the reason why this “perfect” child had been given up for adoption at almost a year old. Of course, the adoption agency had assured her that he was perfectly normal -- that it was a “lifestyle choice made by a single mother” -- but she always felt that it wasn’t the entire story. A nagging, sticking pit in her stomach that never quite went away, even with the assurances of everyone involved. 

She should have listened to her gut. It was never supposed to be like this. 

She’d lived with the guilt since the day they did it, wondering if they’d made the right decision, giving up as easily as they did. But they’d been ill-equipped to deal with the severity of the problems the doctor had diagnosed. It was for the best, she told herself daily, and the gentle pat on her hand by her husband reminded her of that. 

“Sir, the doctors said it was necessary. They said that he - that he had special needs,” Marjorie explained. 

“What kind of special needs?” Doggett asked.

“The doctor told us that he wanted to send him in for additional testing,” Marjorie said. She didn’t tell him she thought she’d seen William move the buffalo on his mobile with his eyes, however the more she thought about it, the more she had convinced herself that it had probably been the wind. Probably. 

“Marjorie took him for his physical about three weeks after he got here,” Kenneth spoke for the first time, and John lifted his eyes to the graying man sitting in front of him.

Marjorie nodded, clearing her throat. “Yes. They’d kept calling-”

“Who kept calling?” John interrupted.

Marjorie opened her mouth to speak, but Kenneth had beat her to it, placing an apologetic hand on his wife’s arm. “The doctors from the center,” he replied. “Said they were set up by the social workers from the adoption agency. We were told that the adoption wouldn’t go through until we took him and cleared him with these doctors, and they signed off on everything.” Marjorie dropped her gaze back to her napkin, twisting it around her fingers idly. 

“Who told you this?” John asked, moving his eyes from Kenneth to Marjorie. 

There was a pause. She lifted her head and met his eyes with a lift of her chin. 

“Mr. Doggett,” she started, “I’m not sure if you’re aware of how the process of adoption works, but there are many hands in the pot when you’re adopting a child. There are agency social workers, as well as county and state social workers. Doctor’s appointments, forms, lawyers… So much has to be accomplished before the adoption can be finalized.” 

John nodded his head, jotting notes in the file. “So, what went wrong then? You said the doctors advised against him living here with you.”

The Van de Kamps nodded sadly, but Marjorie’s face lit suddenly. “I think I have the old files in the den. Let me go check.” With a murmured thanks from Doggett, Marjorie smiled politely at him and moved away from the table. Within a matter of minutes she returned, carrying a file an inch thick with documents. 

Marjorie licked her lips and handed John the materials. “Here. I think this is everything.” 

“This is fantastic,” John said, skimming the file with an investigator’s eye. “Thank you.” 

They sat in silence for a few moments, allowing John to rifle through the pages of documents. He paused his perusal when a loose photo fell from between the pages, the same fair-skinned smiling child he’d known from years before. Replacing the photo, John sifted through another dozen pages before settling on a physician’s report.

“Tell me about this Dr. Shelby in Cheyenne,” he said, his eyes still scanning the pages for relevant information. 

“I took him to see Dr. Shelby for a normal pre-adoption physical,” Marjorie began with a shaky voice. “He.. he specialized in adoption cases and we were told he could fill out the paperwork without any fuss. There was so much paperwork,” she finished with a sad sigh, rubbing her forehead. “So, we made an appointment, and took him in. Because we hadn’t been given his immunization record or medical files, we were told that he would need a whole new series of vaccinations as well as x-rays.”

“X-rays? Why x-rays?” John asked, pen paused mid stroke. 

Marjorie looked up, her eyes skittering across the ceiling as she attempted to wrack her memory for the answers. “Um… I remember them saying something about bone growth, and something about checking for previous injuries, which was disturbing to say the least. Photocopies of the x-rays should be in there somewhere,” she told John, and he flipped through the file in search of them.

“Who could hurt a precious young boy?” Kenneth asked, and his wife nodded in silence. Plenty of people, John thought, as visions of his dead son lying facedown in the grassy meadow came fluttering into his mind. 

But he cleared his throat, and pressed forward. “Did the scans reveal anything abnormal?” 

Her brows pinched. “It wasn’t in the x-rays. It was his blood work. He had a rare type of anemia that, if left untreated, would be fatal--”

“Do you remember the name?” John asked, looking down at the pages in front of him in search of the answer. “I don’t see it anywhere in here.”

Marjorie shook her head. “No, I had to give my only copy to the transport team who moved him.” 

John lifted his face to her, studying the simple woman with a critical eye. He had fifty-plus pages of medical and adoption-related paperwork sitting in front of him, meticulously recorded and kept by Marjorie, but the one document that could lead him towards an answer was curiously missing. 

He cleared his throat. “What do you remember of it?”

Marjorie shook her head, glancing to Kenneth for support as her eyes narrowed in thought. “It was uhm...some German name, I think.” She paused. “Aslander… Aslander Visen Anemia. It took me awhile to learn how to pronounce it,” she finished with a sad smile. 

John squinted at the paper as he wrote the foreign words phonetically in his notes. “Great. Thanks.”

She continued, ”It required hourly injections, series of infusions… Kenneth and I would have needed to be trained on how to handle his kind of disease, which we were open to doing,” she implored, and Kenneth nodded his head slowly, “but we couldn’t afford to move - our farm is our business, Mr. Doggett. Three and a half acres of land. It would have finished us.”

John looked between them. “Why would you have to move?”

“The heavy metals in the ground…” Kenneth replied.

“Heavy metals?” John’s head snapped up. A needle puncture. A bleeding baby. A man being turned into metal. Magnetite. 

Kenneth nodded. “Yeah, heavy metals were leaking into our groundwater, and generally it was harmless -- at least to Marjorie and me because I guess we’d grown used to it -- but the doctors told us that it would only make him sicker.”

“We didn’t want that,” Marjorie whispered tearfully. 

“Did you get a second opinion? Couldn’t there have been any other options?” John asked, and was met with a shrug from both parents. 

“There wasn’t anyone else, Mr. Doggett.” She shook her head at him with narrowed eyes. “Our town has six-hundred people, we--” but Kenneth interrupted her with an impatient flick of his wrist. 

“We took the advice of the damn doctors. I’m a farmer, not a physician. I finished high school with a C-average at best, and Marjorie -- while far smarter than me--,” he said, glancing over at his wife, “wasn’t equipped for that either.” 

“We did what the doctor told us, Mr. Doggett,” she added. “What other option was there?” It was said as if it were the easiest answer in the world. As if a second-opinion or conducting their own research on the life-threatening disease their son had would have never occurred to them. They simply took the doctor at their word. 

Kenneth broke the silence. “Doctors told us there was a hospital out in Washington, D.C. who specialized in children with rare birth defects and special needs. We were told they had a spot available for William, doctors who were trained to treat it. So, we were advised that he be sent there so he could be treated properly. Maybe even healed.” 

“And I take it you sent him?” Gave him up, John mused. Threw him out with the trash. Someone else’s problem. 

Marjorie shrugged. “It really wasn’t up to us in the end. Once the social workers had found out that the groundwater was contributing to his disease, we were told that we needed to move or place him in the hospital.” A tear rolled down her face. It was never supposed to be like this. 

“I see,” John sighed in resignation, reading the social worker’s explanation on an accompanying page. 

John had been there when Dana gave him away - both he and Monica, actually. After signing the papers, she’d walked from the kitchen table, clutching William to her chest for a few stolen moments before Monica forcibly pried Dana’s arms from around the small boy, and walked out of her apartment. It was the last thing Dana had seen of her baby - William crying and reaching for the mother who was giving him away to strangers. 

He’d caught her shortly before she hit the ground. “He’ll never forgive me…” she’d sobbed. Only he didn’t know who she’d been referring to -- William or Mulder. 

John cleared his throat of the sudden emotion clogging it, shaking his head from the haunting memory. “What’s the name of the hospital where he was taken?” 

“I think it’s in there,” Marjorie said, lifting her chin to peer across the table at the documents.

“Oh, here we go,” John said, pulling a yellow paper from the back. “Does Dr. Augustus Goldman, founder of Nugenics, from Our Lady of Sorrow’s Hospital sound familiar?” 

Marjorie simply nodded. 

\----

After he left the Van de Kamp’s, it took a split second to change his mind and turn left into town, instead of right towards the airport. Row after row, he pulled book after book off the shelf of the local library, thumbing through the library’s entire selection of medical books in their limited card catalog. At a small table in the back, away from prying eyes, he sat and opened the first book, Disorders of the Blood, 5th edition, to the index. There was iron-deficiency anemia, aplastic anemia, sickle-cell anemia and about fifteen others that didn’t fit the description or name he’d been given. After checking the publishing dates on the rest of the horribly outdated collection with a frown, he placed them on the return cart and moved to where updated information was found in the modern world today.

Finding an open spot at the small row of computers in the back of the library-- a gift from the Hamilton High School PTA -- he checked his surroundings, glancing behind his back for an enemy he still couldn’t name, and surreptitiously logged on to the internet. 

He formed the words on his lips as he typed them into the search engine, repeating them over and over again as each search came up empty handed. Scrubbing his scalp with a frustrated sigh, it had finally come to him in a brief moment of clarity. It had been a German name, Marjorie had said. The spelling was wrong, and if the two years of German he took in high school were as tough as he thought they were, he dreaded what awaited him. 

He pressed enter and held his breath. 

It wasn’t ‘Aslander Visen Anemia,’ the bastardized phonetic translation the couple had given, but ‘Auslander Wiesen Anemia’. 

Only Auslander Wiesen Anemia didn’t exist. No where on the entirety of the web did any article, or reference to such a disease appear. It might be rare, he’d thought, but the internet would surely have some medical journal that mentioned it. 

The disease simply did not exist. But one thing kept showing up over and over in his search results, and his skin prickled in a cold sweat. 

Auslander Weisen was also a rough, though improper, German translation for ‘outsider’.

Also, for ‘alien being’. 

Swallowing the bile in his throat, it was with sudden clarity that he learned the truth. 

They’d found William. 

He logged off the computer, and hustled towards the directory on the wall, avoiding the prying eyes of the eighty year old librarian ready to pounce should he step one foot out of line. 

The best thing about small towns, he mused, was that everything tended to be centrally located. The library was in the same building as the County Registrar’s office and City Hall. But it was the County Records and Land Surveyor’s office he was searching for. A quick descent on the elevator and a charming conversation with a flirtatious front later secretary later, and he was elbow deep in rolls and rolls of schematic blueprints and surveyor’s reports.

His nose itched in protest from the dust that trickled from each roll as he searched for the one that would finally give him the answers he sought. The more he’d thought about it, the more it’d made sense to him. Wyoming was full of natural mineral deposits and used to be a titan in the mining of minerals, mainly copper. But Wyoming was also rich in another mineral, iron. Magnetite was iron-based, and the relationship between the two was not lost on him as the sinking suspicion that the Van de Kamps had become nothing more than a pawn in the insidious game he thought he left behind became more and more a reality. He found the correct page that pertained to their property address and flipped to it. 

Soil can be in the upwards of forty-five percent mineral-based, and while the Van de Kamp’s mineral deposits appeared normal, the level of extractable iron in their soil recorded far outside the normal limits. But it was the ‘above normal’ recording below it that made him pause. 

“Unidentifiable iron-based mineral. Advise further testing. Sample sent to US Geological Society in Washington, D.C. for further testing and advisement. Await response for soil treatment.”

His stomach lurched to his heart and he flipped the page over to see when the testing had been completed. A week after William’s arrival. 

The timing was suspiciously perfect. A comedy of errors and perfectly matched puzzle pieces all leading to the same conclusion: They’d known. They’d known the entire time where he was, and knowing the protection that the earth would have naturally provided to him, making him invincible to the super-soldiers who sought to destroy him, they had found another way of getting to him. Quite possibly the disease he’d been given was part of the elaborate plan, as well, John mused, doctors and officials all a part of this scheme to keep William under their thumb. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he repeated to himself. This was exactly what Dana had been trying to avoid. 

He made his flight back to Washington with only minutes to spare. 

\----

Washington, D.C.   
One day later...

John adjusted his tie, and clipped the false identification tag to his white lab coat. The parents’ story had left more questions than answers, but he hadn’t had time to go back and follow up on the information they had provided. He needed to get to William. Now more than ever - especially after what he’d found in that tiny city library. 

He walked up the steps to the hospital entrance, and moved towards the elevator with intent. Act like you belong there, as the saying goes. Patients and staff hustled around him, ignorant to the imposter in the white coat. He rounded the corner and pressed the button to the elevator. He flipped through the paperwork one more time, reaching into his coat pocket for the thick-framed glasses that would further conceal his identity, and boarded the empty cart.

He approached the nurses’ station and looked down at the young woman sitting behind the desk, mindlessly chewing on bubble gum and penciling notes, swaying to the music playing from a small radio on the back wall. Blind to his presence, he took the opportunity and focused on the whiteboard behind her, narrowing his eyes on one name that stood out above all the others. 

William Van de Kamp, 102, Dr. Augustus Goldman, attending physician. *No visitors*

“Can I help you?” came the voice beneath his line of sight and he averted his eyes, forcing his lips to smile politely at the young woman, hoping she couldn’t see his heart pounding through the thick vein in his neck. 

“Yeah, hey.” His voice cracked shakily. “I’m here to see William Van de Kamp.” He felt a bead of sweat roll down his back as he awaited the nurse to reject his request. She eyed him suspiciously, picking up a clipboard and scanning the first page with the tip of her pen. 

“You takin’ the rest of the transfers too?” She lifted her face to his, raising her brows in expectation. 

He swallowed, shifting his weight. “He’s being transferred today?” 

She rolled her eyes with a soft grumble. “Always the jokester, aren’t you?” she said with an annoyed wave of her hand, chomping mindlessly away on her gum. “Is that how you get all the ladies?” She reached for another clipboard and sets it in front of him. “William Van de Kamp, Susan Lotmus, and Nigel Fernandez, right?” She eyed him expectantly, and he shook his head. 

“Uh, I-I was told to only collect Van de Kamp,” he stammered, doing his best to go with the flow and lie effectively, but on three hours of sleep in forty-eight hours, he was more than aware his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. The nurse sat back in her seat with a exasperated sigh, rubbing her face with her hands. 

“Jesus, you guys aren’t told anything, are you?” she groaned through her hands. “I’ll be so glad when these Nugenics transfers are complete.” She gestured to the pen holder to his right and John grabbed a pen, scribbling a name of no one in particular next to William’s name. 

“Sorry, first day,” John told her, smiling apologetically in the hopes that she might take pity on him. 

“No, look,” she said, closing her eyes with a sigh. “It’s just been a long week, is all.” 

“I would imagine.” 

She smiled kindly. “With Dr. Goldman moving all the high risk kids from the Quarantine Wing here at Our Lady and down to his Nugenics building, it’s been a little hectic.” She tore off a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Here’s your list of names. Just make sure these three are gone by the end of the day. They were supposed to have been moved a week ago.”

“Got it,” he told the over-worked nurse, looking down at the paper in his hands as he made his way down the hallway, all too aware that only one name on the list would be leaving with him. 

Each room was closed to the outside world, a window on the door their only escape from their cell-like chambers. One, two, three faces greeted him as he walked by each small window, children with ambivalent eyes, but twinkling with an eagerness towards the unfamiliar friend, hopeful that maybe this man would sit and stay with them giving them the attention they so desperately craved. Lonely and scared eyes pleaded with him as he walked past each room, moving intently towards the one at the end of the hall. 

He stopped outside of William’s room, glancing behind him before wiping the sweat from his forehead. Blinds drawn, the only identification on the outside of the door was a sign hanging from the clip on the window. 

“No visitors. Must get approval from Dr. Goldman before entering. Only approved personnel.” 

With a shaky breath, he twisted the handle to the door and paused, wincing in preparation for the sound of the alarm. Only it never came. No alarms. No guards. No keypad on the outside. William was seemingly hiding in plain sight. The less conspicuous the better, he thought. No one asks too many questions. 

The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the little boy on the bed barely lifted his head at the sound of his arrival. John felt his stomach plummet at the sight in front of him. An infant the last time he laid eyes on him, a boy of four now sat before him, eyeing him curiously from the bed. His poorly trimmed reddish hair lay in stark contrast to his colorless surroundings, and it was only then that John took in the room for what it appeared to be. A prison. Void of the bright colors, drawings, and toys that should have accompanied a child’s room of his age, he was instead surrounded by white walls, monitors, and medical equipment that John couldn’t name if even he tried. 

He shivered despite himself, catching the boys eyes on the other side of the room. His skin tingled with a sensation he couldn’t quite place - neither fear nor pleasure-- and he shook his head to rid himself of the feeling. He needed to get them out of there. 

“They said no mawr praceedjures,” William’s small voice pouted.

He looked to the boy, ignoring the twist of his gut at the sight of a single tear brimming his eyes. Unable to understand, he shook his head before speaking softly. “I’m sorry -- what, bud?” 

William’s lip trembled, and he clutched his well-worn Batman figurine to his chest a little tighter. “Carla say no doctas today. She said I can pway wiff Batman before lunch.” He spoke in a tongue-tied broken English that only comes from the mouths of small children, and it made John smile despite himself. “And then I’m moving wiff the udda kids.” 

“Is Carla your nurse?” William nodded in return, and soared Batman through the air towards John. 

“Can you fix his leg?” John caught the toy with a startled glance at the little boy before looking down at the broken toy with pinched brows. Luke had a blue Batman when he was this age, he remembered casually, pushing the leg back into the pegged slot before testing its range of motion with his fingers. He assumed William’s Batman had been dressed in black back when it was new, not that he could tell by the weathered appearance of the one he held in his hand right now, which appeared more grey than black, the finer details of his muscular form having been rubbed off with use. 

“Awr you gonna take me to the pwace?” William asked, taking his fixed Batman from John’s hand.

“The new hospital?” 

William shook his head and crawled up to his pillow, pulling a tattered book from under the stiff linen. Batman’s face stared back at him from the cover, his side-kick and nemesis standing ominously in the background as the bat signal flared high in the sky. William opened the book for John, and pointed to a face on the page. 

“The pwace with da man in da mask.” 

Blue eyes met blue, and John felt the tiny hairs on his arm stand on end. Man in a mask?

John swallowed the bile that threatened to rise, pushing down the fears of William’s reality to get the answers he needed. “Have you been to this place in the book, William? Is this the place you’re afraid of?” 

With a scoot back against the top of his bed, William brought his skinny legs up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them with a nod. “He wears a mask, and his hands are wapped in white just like da Joker’s afta he falled into da green stuff.” 

Suddenly Monica’s words played in John’s mind. “His face is horribly disfigured…”

The nature behind William’s arrival in the hospital had became more nefarious with this disclosure, and he wished he would have brought his gun.

“What’s your name?” William asked, his innocent eyes looking intently into John’s.

“I’m John.” 

William cocked his head thoughtfully, touching the lapel of John’s coat. “You don’t seem like a docta,” he said seriously, a little wrinkle forming between his brows. 

“That’s because I’m not. I’m here to take you out of here.” Honesty was always the most important principle, he told himself, and he smiled down at the boy, happy to know that, at least in this, he wasn’t telling him a lie. 

The little boy shrugged, and hopped off the bed. “Otay. Can I bring Batman and Robin?” 

“Uh...sure, I guess.” 

William stood by the door, patiently waiting for John to make the first move. “You hafta to get da wheelchawr,” he explained. 

“I do?” John asked, and William shakes his head at the clueless adult. 

“Yes. We hafta weave in da wheelchawr. It’s da rule.”

John held his palms up with raised brows. “Oh, well,” he conceded with an amused smirk. “Then we had better follow the rules.” 

He pulled the collapsed wheelchair from behind the door, wrapping a thin blanket around William as his small body crawled expertly into the seat, settling back with his favorite toys.

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get you out of here,” he groaned with the first push of the squeaky chair, hoping and praying with each step that he wouldn’t be caught. 

Passing the nurses station, William waved to the young woman from before, nearly giving John a heart attack in the process. 

“Bye, Abbagwail,” he told the girl, and she waved at him with a wink, continuing her conversation into the mouthpiece of the phone.

It’s only inside the elevator that John realized he was taking William from the only place he had ever known. Pushing the rising tide of guilt aside, the elevator alerted them to their arrival on the ground floor, and the door opened to the chaotic world of the emergency room. 

“Hold on, William. We’re almost to the car,” he said, leaning down to the child’s ear. The boy could do nothing but nod, his eyes wide with an emotion John couldn’t name, overwhelmed by the commotion and sounds. 

Outside the doors of the hospital, John stole one final glance behind him, feeling the intensity of the moment grip his heart in a vice as he waited for the alarms and sirens to signal William’s absence. Sooner or later, it would be realized that William was removed without authorization, stolen off the premises, and he wanted to be far away from D.C. when it happened. Pushing the wheelchair to the end of the sidewalk, he swiftly picked up William and rushed the remaining distance towards his car. Unable to see past the solid bundle bouncing in his arms, he cursed when his arm caught the sharp edge of a side mirror. 

“Fuck,” John groaned, but immediately chastised himself, apologizing to the boy in his arms and holding him tighter. With each bounce of his body, William jolted in John’s arms, and he pressed his face into the man’s shoulder with a muffled cry, unused to being jostled in such a way. Finally, they rounded the last corner to his car and he placed William on the ground, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. 

“You okay, bud?” he asked breathlessly. 

William nodded with a pout of his lip. 

“Okay,” John breathed, cupping the boy’s cheek. “Let’s get out of here.” Opening the passenger side, he pressed the button on the door that unlocks the backseat. 

A sniffle alerted him, and John looked down at William in alarm. 

“I... drawpped... my Batman,” William sniffled.

“What?” John asked, and William’s lower lip trembled as fat tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“I lawst him,” he cried. 

John looked around the car, even dropping to his knees and checking under it for the lost toy. Coming up empty, he gripped the boy’s arms and brushed the tears from his angelic face. “It’s okay,” he soothed, pulling him into his arms and lifting the boy in a tight embrace. “It’s okay, shhh,” he repeated, rubbing the boy’s back with cautious eyes on their surroundings. After a moment he loaded the quiet child into the backseat, and strapped the seat belt across his little chest, and made a note to find a car seat once they were safely out of city limits. 

“I’m sorry we lost Batman, little man,” he told him, tucking his Robin safely beside him, “but we’ll get you another one okay?”

William nodded and glanced down to John’s arm, crinkling his brows in concern.“You got hurt?” 

“Wha’?” John asked, looking down at his arm, finally seeing the gash across his forearm. “Must have happened when I hit that side mirror,” he told William with a smile, shrugging away the seriousness of the injury. “It’ll be okay, buddy. Don’t worry ab--” He stopped when he felt William’s tiny hands cover the wound, and his brows furrowed in confusion, stilled by the look of sheer concentration on the little boy’s face. 

Finally, he shook his head and pulled his arm away, ruffling the boy’s choppy hair. “Using your superhero powers to save me, eh?” William continued to stare at John’s arm with small smile, and John shook his head at the boy’s childhood wonderment, closing the door to the backseat with a resounding thud. 

He slid into the driver’s seat and glanced to the backseat, lifting his injured arm to turn the ignition. That’s when he saw it, or rather that’s when he didn’t see it. The gash. It was gone- a simple pink scar the only remaining proof of his injury. 

His heart pounded wildly, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as each hair stood on end. “You do this?” He looked in the rearview mirror, pointing to his injured arm with a sharp bite to his tone. 

A nervous nod came from the backseat, and John swallowed convulsively, rubbing his face with his hand and pressing his head against his seat, closing his eyes in thought of the implications. 

“You do this before?” He lifted his head and turned around, looking at the boy clutching his blanket. 

William’s eyes filled with tears. “Pweez don’t tell.” 

John’s heart clenched at the sight of the child sitting terrified behind him, and he reached out, holding his hand as the little boy sniffled. “You’re not…” he trailed off, uncertain of what to say to the kid. 

“Awr you mad?” he asked, and John shook his head. 

“No. I’m not mad,” he told him, wiping a tear from his face. “But listen, you’re never to do that again, you hear me?” His voice was soft, but stern, and William sniffled with a jerky nod of his head. 

“Otay… I won’t. “ He sniffled again.

“I just wanna keep you safe, buddy,” John explained. “That,” he swallowed, “...cool trick has to stay between you and me, okay?”

“Otay…” William conceded with a sullen drop of his chin.

John turned around and started the car, pulling out of the parking lot as quickly and safely as possible. Glancing back into the rearview mirror, he watched William’s wide-eyed reactions to the bright new world around him, wondering just how he was gonna make this work and keep the boy safe. 

He entered the Interstate and kicked up the speed on his odometer, driving west into the sunset. He didn’t know where they were going, or what they would do once they got there. All he knew was that he’d made a promise many years ago, a promise to William’s parents, though he was sure they didn’t know he’d made it. It was his own code. His own moral standard. He just never thought that he would actually have to follow through. 

\----

PRESENT DAY

 

“Oh my God,” Scully utters as John finishes his story. Her hand comes to rest over her mouth as she shakes her head, tears shining brightly in her eyes.

Mulder stands quickly and crosses to squat next to her chair. He whispers in her ear as his hand caresses up and down the length of her spine. 

“Mulder,” she says through her fingers, her voice breaking. “All of this time…”

“I know,” Mulder says, his voice light with reassurance. “He’s ok. He was safe.”

“I kept him safe, Dana,” John says as he locks his eyes with hers. “I swear to you.”

Scully closes her eyes as tears start to flow down her face. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Mulder says as he grasps her hand. “You guys okay with figuring out your sleeping arrangements?”

Skinner looks to John, and John shrugs. 

“We’ll be fine, you two go ahead,” Skinner says finally. 

John and Skinner watch as Scully stands and allows Mulder to lead her to the stairway. She stops once they reach the first step, turns around. “John?” 

John sits up straight at the calling of his name, and gives her a nod.

Her shoulders sag, but a weak smile spreads across her face. “Thank you.” 

He nods again. “Of course.” 

\----

Mulder closes the door to their bedroom as Scully walks directly to their bed and curls into a ball on her side. He stands at the door, momentarily stunned at the sight of her in their bed again after all of these months of her side sitting vacant. Her red hair splays across the white pillowcase, and her small frame somehow takes up half of the bed, just as he remembers. However, in all of the months that he’s fantasized about her coming home, her sniffling into her pillow isn’t exactly the reunion he had in mind. 

He crosses to the bed and gently removes her shoes from her feet, dropping the heels to the floor. His fingers grip the edge of the comforter and tug.

“Lift up,” he whispers. 

She complies, lifting the top half of her body, then the lower half as Mulder helps her slide under the covers. She turns her face into the pillow as he pulls the blanket to her chin. 

“What was the point?” she whispers so quietly that he almost misses it. 

Such a profound question. Those seven years that they worked on the X Files, putting their lives in danger time after time, only to waltz one step forward and two steps back. The murder of his father and Scully’s sister. Scully’s terminal cancer and near death. His abduction, death, and rebirth. Their incessant search for the elusive truth, only to uncover more lies and deceit. Death, lies, and more death, only to end up here, childless and alone. Yes, Scully, he thinks. What *was* the point?

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he seats himself next to her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, the fine lines around them seem etched into her red splotchy skin, and she balls the blanket into her fists, holding them in front of her mouth. He sighs and gives her shoulder a squeeze. “The point of what, Scully?”

Scully pauses a moment before rolling onto her back, pushing the blanket to her waist, and staring at the ceiling. “I made the decision to give William up for adoption to keep him out of the hands of those that wanted to harm him. It was my fear that they would take him, lock him up in an institution, run tests on him like he was some sort of goddamned lab rat, poking and prodding at our little boy.” Her voice cracks and she quickly covers her mouth with her hand, inhaling deeply through her nose. “I wanted him to live a normal life, a life without fear, so I did the only thing I thought I could. All of these years I have justified that decision with the knowledge that my fear would never come to fruition. He was safe. I gave our son to strangers, Mulder, to protect him. And for what?” 

Mulder turns away, unable to look at her as her voice rises, ashamed that her words are echoing his own thoughts. 

“He was in my hospital, Mulder!” she nearly yells. “Right under my nose that entire time, and I didn’t know! I’m his mother, how could I not know?”

“Shh, Scully-”

She drops her voice to a hoarse whisper. “He was locked away and probably terrified and I was just a few floors up. I was there, Mulder, I could have-”

“What, Scully? You could have what?” Mulder hisses. “Saved him? Broken him out?”

“Well, John-”

“John did what we were unable to do,” Mulder says as he finally looks at Scully. His eyes pierce into hers as he adds, “He protected our son.”

Scully’s chin dimples as it quivers, and her eyebrows furrow. “I…” She inhales sharply before a sob rips from her chest, and she doesn’t try to muffle it. “I failed him. I failed William.”

Mulder grabs Scully by the shoulders and pulls her to his chest, his body absorbing the sobs that wrack through her tiny frame as she pours her grief into him. Her arms wrap around his waist, her fists balling the back of his t-shirt as he pulls her into him tighter. 

Pressing a chaste kiss to the crown of her head, his breath of his exhale washes over her. “We, Scully,” he whispers into her hair. “We failed him.”


	4. Ashes, Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @bohoartist for the beta <3

The late morning sun shines brightly through the windows, casting an erroneous sense of alertness over the exhausted people at the kitchen table. 

“How long we stayin’ here?” John asks after stifling a yawn behind his cup of coffee. He stretches his back from side to side, groaning at the tight muscles that line his spine. After he’d made his way upstairs a few hours earlier, he’d entered the room to find William fast asleep in the bed. Rather than waking him with a “Scoot over, kid,” he’d pulled the spare blanket and pillow from the bed, and slept on the floor.

Mulder fixes his gaze on Scully, but she looks at John, eyebrow raised, and asks, “What do you mean, John?”

He clears his throat. “I mean, do we camp out here for a few days? A few weeks? What are you guys thinking, what’s the plan?”

William’s eyes jump from adult to adult: Mulder chewing his bottom lip, Scully staring at her plate, Skinner cocking his head to the side, and finally his Papa, who’s looking directly at him. 

“How about it, Will? What do you think? Do we stay or go? Wanna camp out here for a while?” John asks while reaching over and squeezing William’s shoulder.

Scully’s eyes narrow, and William feels the wave of confusion rush from her, tinged with irrational sparks of anger. “Excuse me? Go?” she asks, the look of betrayal on her face speaking louder than her dangerously even voice. Everyone at the table remains quiet as a heavy tension manifests in the kitchen, afraid that if they even breathe too loudly that it would pull the pin of her internal grenade that’s meticulously hidden beneath her cool exterior.

Mulder slides his hand across the few inches on the table to grasp hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. After a deep breath, her eyes shift to meet his and he shakes his head ‘no.’

“Did I miss something?” John asks, looking between the two. 

“In the hospital, you said…” Scully’s voice fades, then she shakes her head. “No, John, you didn’t miss anything. Clearly I did. Fourteen years to be exact,” she mutters, then stands and walks swiftly to the front door. “I need some air.” 

“Dana!” John calls, but Scully shuts the door behind her, ending the conversation. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Skinner asks as soon as the door clicks shut behind her. “She just got her son back, and now you’re talking about him staying only temporarily? Do you really think that you have the authority to decide where he goes now?”

“That’s not what I meant!” John says harshly. “But, I’ve raised him for over a decade, Walter. I think I still have some say in the matter,” John retorts while looking at Skinner, purposely avoiding Mulder’s piercing stare.

“This doesn’t need to be discussed right now,” Mulder says, tipping his head towards William.

“It sure as hell does,” John replies, finally meeting his eyes. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding, so let’s just clear the air right now. I told her I wouldn’t keep her from William and I meant it-”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Skinner says.

“But don’t you think for a minute that I’m going to just pick up and run, leaving him behind either.”

“No one is suggesting that, John,” Skinner says evenly, as Mulder’s hands curl into tight fists.

“Well judging by this conversation,” John spits, “that’s exactly what’s being suggested, Walter. *I* don’t do that. Not happening.”

“What exactly are you implying, Doggett?” Mulder’s voice rises with each word, his face growing a deeper shade of red.

“Not implying anything, Mulder. I don’t run out on my family.”

Mulder leans across the table, and says through gritted teeth, “You sonofabitch. You’re lucky Scully isn’t in here to hear-”

John leans forward. “I’m not talking about the adoption.”

William’s stomach flips as his eyes volley between his two fathers. He knows the story, having memorized every word of it after asking Papa to tell him again and again. Under the light of a campfire, Papa wove a tale of two lovers caught within a tortuous web of danger, sending their only son away in hopes for his survival. Over the years and as he grew older, the fire breathing dragons became men in suits with little regard for human life, and the crumbling royal kingdom became a shadow government preparing to end civilization. Life is stranger than fiction, sometimes. 

William opens his mouth to interject, to stop the argument, but is stopped by a tight grip on his arm. He looks over to see Skinner watching him, shaking his head.

Mulder’s jaw drops as he slumps back into his seat, looking as if he’s been struck by Doggett’s own hand. “That’s what you think I did? Just ‘cut and run’ from my family?” he asks exasperatedly.

“Hey, man, you said it, not me,” John says with his hands up, leaning back into his chair.

“Knock it off, both of you!” Skinner yells, standing up and slamming his hands down on the kitchen table. “Now isn’t the time nor the place. No one, and I mean NO ONE, is leaving this house at the moment. Everyone needs to calm the hell down, and we will take this step by step. Day by day. This is just beginning, we can’t lose our heads now. We need to stick together.”

He sits back down and straightens his shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. “We’re going to need extra food, Mulder, enough to last for days, possibly weeks. We have no idea how long this will continue on for, or how long we’re going to need to hide out. Food, water, gasoline.”

Mulder rubs his hands over his face. “Food and water I have covered. I need to get to Scully’s apartment and get her dog, Daggoo. We can get gas on the way, I have a few empty cans out back in the shed.”

“What’s in the shed?” They hear after the door shuts. Scully crosses to the table and takes her place next to Mulder. 

“Gas cans. We’re going to need more gas for the generator,” Mulder says quietly, once again taking her hand in his.

“How do you have food and water covered?” Skinner asks.

“Stumbled across an old bunker on our property about a year ago. I was out for a morning walk, just minding my own business, and tripped. I thought I broke my ankle and was gonna have to suck it up and ask Scully to take another sick day,” he says with a chuckle as he looks to her. She offers him a gentle smile, then ducks her head. “Anyways,” he continues, “when I finally got inside, I was in awe. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it. Air ventilation with a filtering system, empty shelves lining the walls, a handful of cots. So, I did what any man with a tendency towards the paranoia would do. I filled it.”

“With what?” John asks.

“I installed a few fifty-five gallon drum water reservoirs, dry goods, the works,” Mulder says.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw the purchase of 300 MRE’s from G&E Military Surplus on our credit card statement,” Scully says with a roll of her eyes. 

Skinner leans back in his chair and laughs. “Please tell me you got the chicken fajitas and not the veggie burgers with knock off gatorade powder. I still have nightmares about those veggie burgers.”

Everyone laughs, but William turns to Skinner with a disgusted look on his face. “Were they that bad?”

“It was like eating wet, ground up cardboard stuffed between two stale buns,” Skinner says with a pat on William’s back. “Believe me, you want the chicken fajitas, son.”

After the laughter dies down and the room has fallen to a comfortable silence, Mulder clears his throat and then stands, pushing his chair to the table.

“Where are you going?” Scully asks him, her eyebrow raised.

“To make the gas run,” he answers as he crosses to the living room, gathering his jacket and the keys to the SUV. “I’d like to be back before sunset.”

“Mulder,” she starts, but he interrupts her.

“I feel fine, Scully. Better than I have in years, actually,” he says with a glance towards William. William holds his glance for a moment, then drops his eyes to the tabletop.

Scully watches the interaction between her son and his father. A wordless conversation taking place over the span of mere seconds, something she’s experienced herself with Mulder hundreds of times. But she’s surprised to see that it’s a look of acceptance and gratitude written across Mulder’s face, and the truth registers within her as a brief blush spreads across William’s before he looks away. Her chest tightens with a feeling that she immediately writes off as simple woman’s intuition. Too many years have passed, she reasons with herself, for it to be mother’s intuition that’s spasming around her heart. The instinct that has haunted her for years, the fear that her son would never be ‘normal’ confirmed before her very eyes. 

She nods to herself, and runs her finger along the lip of her coffee mug, then finally asks, “Will you be heading towards the city?”

A gentle smile spreads across Mulder’s face as he walks over to Scully and presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll grab the dog, fill the gas cans on the way back.”

She turns in her chair to face him. “But only if it’s safe.”

“It will be.”

Skinner stands suddenly and grabs his jacket. “I’m going with you.”

“And he’s going with you,” Scully says pointing to Skinner. 

An argument bubbles at his lips as Mulder volleys his gaze from Scully to Skinner, but quickly swallows it at the seriousness that shadows their faces. He purses his lips, then nods his head towards the door. “Let’s go then, Skinman.”

The air outside is warm and muggy, thick with the dampness that only summer humidity can bring as they gather and load the empty gas cans in the back of the SUV. Skinner follows Mulder to the driver’s side and opens his palm. 

“I’m driving,” Mulder states and jingles the keys between them. 

“She didn’t clear you to drive, Mulder. Hand over the keys.”

“I didn’t hear anyone complaining last night when I drove us back from the city,” Mulder says, and Skinner nods towards the house. 

Mulder flicks his eyes towards the house and sees Scully standing in the doorway watching them. She lifts her hand and waves, and Mulder begrudgingly drops the keys into Skinner’s waiting hand. The wrath of an angry Dr. Scully was at least one issue he could avoid. Mulder lifts his hand to wave back, then sulks around the SUV to take his place in the passenger seat.

“You’re gonna hop onto I-95 and take that north for about 60 miles,” Mulder says as he tosses their jackets into the back seat, and Skinner shifts the SUV into Drive.

“Right, I-95 to I-395.”

“You know the way to Scully’s apartment?”

Skinner glances at Mulder, then back to the road. “Of course I do.”

Mulder nods while chewing his bottom lip, saying nothing.

“It’s not like that,” Skinner says after a few moments.

“Like what, sir?” He asks, his voice monotone.

“Like whatever scenario is running through your mind right now,” Skinner answers plainly as he swerves around a large patch of washboard. 

Mulder shakes his head to erase the flashes of lascivious scenarios his mind has conjured up, and focuses his eyes on the dirt road before them, its smooth surface freckled with craters and ruts. Riddled with neglect, Mulder thinks with dismay as he turns his gaze to the endless fields that rise and dip like green waves beyond the shoulder. Their road has been desperate for attention and maintenance for months, a striking similarity to his present day situation. A narrow roadway honeycombed with divots and holes that threaten to derail him at any moment, to send him plummeting into the deep-set ditch that runs laterally along the road of his life. 

“I know it’s not my place to say anything-” Skinner starts, his voice interrupting Mulder’s train of thought.

“Then don’t say it,” Mulder suggests. 

Skinner turns to look at him, pinning him with that intense stare that he’d perfected years before when Mulder was just an agent in a basement office with little regard for budgets, then again shifts his eyes forward. “I don’t pretend to know what is going on between the two of you, but what I don’t understand is how it’s gotten bad enough that you’re able to sit back while another fox is sniffing around your den.”

A deep crease forms between Mulder’s brows when he asks, “You mean John Doggett?” He waves his hand in the air. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s not. He’s the man who stepped in as Scully’s partner and had her back while you were missing. The same man that held a candle for her even though she was pregnant with your child. The man who raised your son all of these years.”

“What’s your point, Walter?”

“My point, Mulder, is that his fierce loyalty to her, even after all these years, isn’t something you should so readily dismiss.” Skinner flicks the blinker and maneuvers the SUV onto the expressway, then adds, “I saw the way he looked at her then, and I see the way he looks at her now. Not much has changed.”

Mulder’s jaw muscles work tirelessly as he chews on the words that form at the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell Skinner that it doesn’t matter how John looked at her fifteen years ago, because he came back to her, but Mulder’s not so sure that it doesn’t matter. He wants to tell Skinner that it doesn’t matter how John looks at Scully now, that the looks aren’t reciprocated, but Mulder’s not so sure that they aren’t. He wants to tell him that he and Scully will be fine, they’re working through everything, but Mulder’s not so sure that they are. 

He wants to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.

Instead, he reaches forward and turns on the radio, letting the computerized voice of the Emergency Broadcast System fill the expanse of silence he doesn’t have the courage to with his own words. 

The road stretches on for miles as they ride in silence for the next hour, but each mile ahead is a sad replica of the miles they’ve passed. Abandoned cars, trucks, and motor homes litter the shoulders, haphazardly parked or stalled out from running out of gas amidst the traffic jam that seemed endless, with countless vehicles scattered every which way into the median like shoddy parking at an outdoor concert. The desolate scene seems to go on forever ahead of them, resembling an image captured from a horror movie. 

Remnants from the chaos of the night before are all that are left. The world has gone completely still, as if frozen in time. There’s no movement, no signs of life. No people flagging them down for a ride to the next town or a trip to the nearest hospital. A chill runs down Mulder’s neck as he finds himself wondering if the Trojan Virus succeeded, if they’re the only people left alive. 

“Did you ever see that one Twilight Zone episode?” Mulder asks.

“The one with the broken glasses?” Skinner asks, shifting in his seat. “The Last Man on Earth, wasn’t it?”

“Time Enough at Last,” Mulder mumbles as he cranes his neck, taking in the bleak sight around them. “The story of a man who seeks salvation in the rubble of a ruined world.”

A group of overturned motorcycles clutter the right lane, their drivers nowhere in sight, as if they laid their bikes down and walked away to never return. Skinner slows down to weave around two cars, neither he or Mulder speak of the family that lay slumped in their seats of the Honda Accord. Mulder prays to whatever is listening that they’re just sleeping off a long night of driving, while the acute awareness that they’ve succumbed to their deaths rings in his ears.

Skinner guides the SUV onto the shoulder of the entry ramp to access the highway that will lead them to Scully’s street, veering cautiously and hugging the guardrail barrier as he merges. 

“Guess we don’t have to worry about flashing your badge to get out of a failure to signal ticket,” Mulder quips. Then adds after a beat, “Or use your badge at all.”

Skinner says nothing, but Mulder sees the brief tension build in his shoulders as the reality of his words are absorbed.

This expressway is lighter with stalled traffic, and a wave of relief washes over Mulder as they see small groups of people walk along the side of the road towards the city. Families, individuals, groups, and pairs, trudging down the shoulders with bags and luggage dragged behind them. Small clusters of people gather under the overpasses to shield themselves from the hot sun that shines down, and Skinner locks the doors.

“The doors auto-lock once you hit 15 miles per hour,” Mulder offers as he fumbles to turn down the radio, keeping his eyes locked on the pedestrians as they pass.

“Better safe than sorry,” Skinner says, his eyes trained forward, avoiding eye contact with a group of people as they drive past.

The group stops and stares intently as the SUV creeps by, their bodies slack with exhaustion, their eyes red-rimmed with sickness. A older man with a long white beard walks ahead of the group, his grey tank top soaked in sweat underneath the straps of a backpack. He holds his hand up in a wave as they drive by. 

Mulder waves back. “Wonder where they’re going.”

“Anywhere but wherever they were.” Skinner veers around an abandoned pickup truck, then accelerates once they reach a clearing in the road. “It’s their natural instinct, I’d imagine. To run.”

Mulder’s palm hits the dash when Skinner slams on the brakes, their tires squealing them to a stop just as a man stumbles into the road before them, falling onto the pavement. The neck of his shirt is torn and tattered, stained with dirt and perspiration as he lay there heaving, helpless. The man rolls to his side and reaches his hand out to Mulder, blood streaming down his face. 

“What the hell?” Mulder utters.

Behind the injured man is a scuffle of bodies and limbs, arms flailing with punches and legs kicking. Bloodied women and men ripping backpacks and bags from others and tossing them to the side, belting out screams of suffering and anger as they assault one another with fists and feet.

Skinner throws the SUV into reverse and backs up far enough to cut the wheel, then throw it in drive. Mulder’s eyes lock with the man’s as they accelerate around him, his outstretched arm falling to the pavement.

“Slow down,” Mulder says, but Skinner accelerates. “What are you doing? We need to stop that fight.”

“No.”

“Skinner! Stop the truck, we can help!”

“Don’t be stupid, Mulder. What we need to do is to get to Scully’s apartment safely. We need to get fuel so that we can keep the generator running. We need to get back in one piece.”

Dumbfounded, Mulder stares at Skinner’s profile, then turns in his seat to watch as the commotion and the injured man fade into the distance. In just twenty-four hours, humanity has regressed significantly, dwindling from intelligent and complex individuals to animalistic creatures with a sole purpose: survival. Inflicting great bodily harm to others for whatever may lie tucked inside of a backpack. Gone is any glimmer of hope for the world to go back to normal, it’s already changing. Rapidly.

—-

Scully’s apartment is exactly as he expected it; simple yet tasteful in furnishings, warm colors spread from room to room offering a comfortable solace from the harsh world outside. 

He can smell traces of her perfume when enters her bedroom, her scent lingering hauntingly days after she’d lived there, as if even the ghost of her is unable to let go of the new life she created for herself. Photos of her family sit positioned around the room, their love captured forever in simple silver frames, their smiles forever frozen in the memories of when they were taken. Family. College friends. What is absent, he notices, are any pictures of the two of them. He grimaces at the blatant omission of his presence in her life, and tosses her overnight bag on the bed, stuffing it with more force than he intends. Shoes. Undergarments. Toiletries. With a final pinch of a large ziploc bag of dog food, Daggoo is lifted into his arms, and he closes the door to her life without him. The trail of her perfume mocks him the entire way down her upscale hallway.

The car is running. Skinner sits alert behind the driver’s seat. Tossing the duffel bag into the back seat, he places Daggoo next to it, scratching him between the ears.

“Lay down, boy. We’ve got a bit of a long ride,” Mulder tells him.

“We should avoid the main roads,” Skinner suggests as Mulder takes his place in the passenger seat. “Take the back way and stop at any gas station that looks safe.”

“Sounds good.” Mulder clicks his seatbelt in place, adjusting the strap across his chest.

“So, when did Scully get a dog?” Skinner asks. 

“A few weeks ago,” Mulder replies as he turns to check on Daggoo, finding him sleeping peacefully, curled comfortably in the back seat. “She adopted him in Oregon.” 

“When were you in Oregon?”

“The homicidal Animal Control officer ring any bells?” Mulder asks.

“The lizard man case?”

“Werelizard,” Mulder says correcting him.

“Whatever.”

“That’s the one,” Mulder says. “You can take the pet travel fee out of my next check.”

“I’d say budgets and reimbursements are the least of our issues,” Skinner says dryly as he gestures to the view outside of the SUV. Mulder lays his head back against the headrest and lets his gaze wander across the backdrop of this new world as they pass through. 

Skinner had been right, the back streets were the better way to go, as they are less congested with fewer cars blocking their way. The lack of abandoned vehicles suggests that most people had flocked to the expressways, their sense of flight greater than their sense to fight, thrusting everyone to roads with higher speed limits. Mulder wonders how many people could have been saved if they would have just taken the road less traveled.

The first gas station finally comes into view about twenty miles into their drive. Under the bright sign advertising the price of unleaded fuel, the few pumps and small parking lot are vacant.

“It has power,” Skinner says as he turns into the driveway. 

“For how long?”

“Exactly,” Skinner says, reminding Mulder why they were stopping in the first place as he pulls up to the first pump and throws the SUV into Park. “I’ll pump, you pay?”

“Yeah,” Mulder replies with a nod. “I’m gonna head inside and look around. Grab us a few waters.”

The hairs along his arms stand at attention as he enters the gas station, but he’s unsure if it’s caused by the air conditioning cooling the air inside to a crisp sixty-eight degrees or the fact that Doritos are still 2 for $5. Just beyond the advertisement sticker covered doors lay a world that is falling apart at the seams, yet inside it feels as if nothing has changed. A pack of Kools is still $8.25, but people are dying left and right just a few miles up the road. No matter what or who he sacrificed he wasn’t able to prevent the impending colonization, but Hershey’s candy bars are still buy one get one free. His sweat slickened skin dries almost instantly, and he nearly laughs at the irony of all of it. The human race is rapidly becoming extinct, but the shelves are still fully stocked with preservative heavy prepackaged snacks and rows of chips.

“Hello?” he calls out hoping for an answer, but is unsurprised when he doesn’t receive one. Walking down the center aisle to the cooler along the back wall, he stuffs a few chilled bottles of water into the crook of his arm, and carries a few packages of Twinkies, a bag of Doritos, and a Snickers for Scully in his empty hand as he makes his way back to the cash register. 

After setting his items on the counter and pausing in quick thought, he doubles back down the last aisle and grabs a bag of dog food, and an empty red gas can, reading $13.99 on the orange sticker. 

“Anyone here?” he calls out from the front of the counter. Again, no one answers. 

Mulder looks around the empty store, catching a glimpse of Skinner shutting the back door of the SUV through the ice promotion posters on the front window. Sighing in resignation, he drops two $20 bills on the counter, and walks out of the door.

Skinner leans against the side of the SUV with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, the collar of his shirt ringed dark with sweat. As Mulder closes the distance between them, Skinner tips his head towards the neighboring pump station. “I checked the other 3 pumps. All tapped out. There was only enough fuel to fill up three of the gas cans.”

“Shit,” Mulder mutters as he puts his bags can in the back seat, then closes the door with a frustrated slam. He leans back against the SUV. “I thought we’d have more time.”

“There are other gas stations, Mulder.”

“I know,” Mulder responds, nodding as he stares off at the horizon.

“I just can’t wrap my mind around it,” Mulder begins, his voice soft with defeat. “We’re only twenty four hours into this epidemic, but…well, you saw it. The entire world is going to hell before our eyes. The shit storm of all time. It’s escalated so quickly, more rapidly than I ever thought possible. If it’s this desolated now, what the hell is tomorrow going to bring?”

Skinner licks his lips, and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Mulder taps the side of the SUV. “There was only one spare gas can in there, but it’s better than nothing. Let’s get going.”

Neither man dares speak during the drive, and an uneven quiet ripples with waves of tension in the car, pungent with exhaustion and dejection, bleeding into their thoughts and settling into their muscles with each passing mile. It takes forty-five miles to find a gas station with pumps still illuminated and powered by electricity.

Pulling up alongside one of the working pumps, Skinner fills the empty gas cans.

“Come on, boy,” Mulder says, holding out his hand. Daggoo jumps into his arms and allows Mulder to carry him to the grass. “Go on, do your business,” he tells him, and the small dog sniffs the green earth with a curious wag of his tail.

Leaning against the side of the gas station, Mulder lifts his head and looks out into the setting sun, a picturesque vibrant orange that seeps into the pink horizon. It’s one of the constants in life, he muses, that the sun will always set at the end of the day.

A high-pitched female scream pierces through the evening, ripping Mulder from his comforting reverie. Daggoo freezes, and Mulder glances around, searching for the source of the noise. Seeing nothing, he gathers the dog, and jogs over to Skinner, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. 

“You hear that?” Mulder calls as he approaches.

Skinner nods once, pointing at the source of the noise. 

On the other side of the building, a tall man in a blue flannel stands before a young couple clad in t-shirts and jeans. The woman pulls at her male companion, terrified and visibly shaking as he points a shotgun at the man standing stoically in front of them.

“Just shoot him, Stephen! Please,” she cries.

Stephen brings the shotgun to his shoulder, and shoots the man in front of them with piercing accuracy. The thundering shot rings through the air, echoing off of the cement walls of the building. Mulder gasps as the bullet cuts into the center of the man’s chest, this new world’s justice splattering blood and bits of blue flannel to the ground before. “We need to get out of here,” he warns Skinner with a pat on his shoulder. “People are out of their minds.”

“Wait,” Skinner says as he grasps Mulder’s bicep. “Look.”

Turning back around, Mulder watches as the dead man rises to his feet, the back of his blue flannel torn and bleeding purple as he turns towards the couple. The woman shrieks, and stumbles backwards. Mulder feels Skinner’s grip on his arm tighten as the man calmly approaches a stunned Stephen, and places his hands on the side of Stephen’s face.

“No!” the woman screams. “Stephen!”

With a quick twist of his head, Stephen and the shotgun crumble lifelessly to the ground. 

“What the…” Mulder utters. Daggoo whines in his arms and he bounces the dog mindlessly to quiet him down. 

The woman shrieks again and turns to run towards the back of the gas station, but stumbles and falls to her hands and knees. 

“No, oh God, help me!” she screams as she crawls across the pavement frantically.

The man crosses the few feet and stands over her, his face completely blank of any emotion. He says nothing as he reaches down and takes her head in his hands, pulling her to her knees.

“Please!” she begs as she claws at the hands on each side of her face.

With a jerk of her neck, the man drops her into a slump on the ground.

“Get in the truck,” Skinner whispers. “Now.”

Scrambling into the truck, they peel out of the gas station, kicking up dirt and dust behind them. Mulder turns in his seat, his eyes focused on the scene as they speed away. The man stands there next to the body of the dead female, watching as they pull away. 

“We don’t breathe a word about this when we get back,” Skinner says while pressing his foot to the accelerator pedal. As their speed climbs, the man fades into the distance quickly. 

Mulder whips his head to Skinner. “We can’t keep this from them.”

“We don’t know for sure-” Skinner starts.

“You saw that back there,” he points. “You watched as he was shot in the chest, and hit the ground. You saw him stand back up as if nothing happened and then break their necks.” He pauses. “Supersoldiers.”

“Mulder,” Skinner says with a tone of warning. “We don’t know that.”

“I’m right. You know I’m right.”

Skinner sighs and checks his rear view mirror. “Supersoldiers. Why? For what purpose?”

Mulder pets Daggoo who lay curled into a ball in his lap, and watches the green fields roll by. “They’re the next phase.”

—-

After an afternoon of cleaning to keep her mind busy, the minutes drag by when Scully’s finally at a loss of household chores. Her fingertips are wrinkled and pruney from washing dishes, and using a damp rag to scrub down every flat surface on the lower level of the house. The floors are swept and vacuumed, the sheets are changed, the odds and ends that were scattered haphazardly throughout the house are put back into their appropriate place.

With each pass by the front window, she can’t help but stop and stare down the long driveway, waiting for Skinner and Mulder’s return, even though she knows they won’t be back for another few hours. A familiar tension burns in her shoulders as her eyes trail off to the tall weeds that hide the road, searching for the tell-tale dust clouds that announce their safe arrival. 

John’s form sitting outside atop the stairs becomes a fixture in her view each time she glances out the window, his jean covered legs kicked out in front of him while the reclined top half of his body sits shaded from the sun. His relaxed state in contradiction to his shotgun that’s placed not too far away, just an arm’s reach to the side. 

Scully pours two glasses of lemonade and makes her way outside. 

“You know we have a perfectly good couch inside that you could take a nap on,” she says as she sits next to him. 

He chuckles, and accepts the beverage. After a long sip he says, “No point in staying cooped up in the house when it’s this beautiful outside.”

Scully’s eyes pan to the horizon before them. It is beautiful, she thinks, with the rolling green fields and trees that jut into the skyline as if they’re reaching for the last few hours of sun before it sets. 

But the sight before her sits unevenly in her stomach, the juxtaposition of the beauty she sees with the ugliness she’s positive lays beyond it souring her belly. She had seen what the world was quickly regressing to as they left the hospital, experienced the fear and pandemonium as they were running for their lives to the SUV, praying they would make it safely. Praying that they would make it out at all. She again finds her eyes fixing on the ditch weeds that line the road, hoping to see activity.

“They’ll be alright,” John says with his eyes closed, as if he’s able to hear her thoughts, sense her worry. “They’re big boys, Dana, they can handle themselves.”

“You’d think after all these years worrying about him, that I’d be better at handling these situations,” she says with a forced chuckle. 

“They’ll be back soon,” he says as he pats the top of her hand with his. “You wouldn’t happen to know what Will is up to, wouldya?”

“He was upstairs thumbing through a few old Lone Gunmen newsletters Mulder had printed out.”

John winces. “I’ll let you field the questions that come up later, then.”

“I think Mulder might be better suited for that,” Scully replies dryly.

John nods in agreement. He turns to look at Scully as her eyes stay glued ahead of her. Her shoulders sit high beneath her ears as her elbows rest on her knees, with her fists under her chin as her thumb worries along her bottom lip. “How ya holdin’ up?” he asks finally. “With everything I mean.”

Scully, refusing to look at him, forces a smile and shrugs. 

“Yeah,” John says as he relaxes back onto the steps. “Same here.”

A comfortable silence falls between the two of them, contrary to their reeling minds. John knows she has questions, that she’s desperate to know every detail of the last few years, to know every detail about her son. Foolishly, he had always thought this part would come easy, that he would know exactly what to say when the time came. But now, in the moment of truth, he finds himself searching through memories of his years with Will, trying to determine where to even begin. How do you begin to explain to a mother who her son is?

“Ya know,” John starts and then clears his throat. “A couple years back when Will was just a kid, we used to have this, uh, this bedtime routine. I’d read in one of those books before Luke was born that kids need routine, ya know, and that was hard to give William sometimes because we were on the move quite a bit before we settled into the compound. It wasn’t a cult or anything” he adds upon hearing her inhale sharply, “just a group of like-minded people that wanted to stay off the grid. Anyways, each night we would sit around the fire after everyone else had gone to sleep and I’d tell him a story. 

“He had his favorites, just like all kids do at that age, I suppose, but the one I told the most was about two warriors saving the world from metal cockroaches that were infesting the world.”   
John feels as Scully looks at him, and he knows her eyebrow is raised. He stares ahead and continues.

“I swear, Dana, I told him that story so many times that he had it memorized. I could pause anywhere in that story, and he would pipe up, not missing a beat, finishing the sentence for me. Ya see, cockroaches had descended onto earth from a foreign planet light years away, led by an evil doctor to take over and make humans their slaves. They swarmed into the sky like a black cloud, the mass of them swirling in clusters so thick that they blocked the sun. The people on earth were terrified, running for shelter and hiding from the war that had been forced onto them. They thought they would never survive.

“But there were these two warriors, a man of passion and a woman of intelligence, that were known around the world for their courage. They put on their armor and wielded their swords, then ran into the war while everyone else was running out. Back to back they fought the cockroaches by the dozens, by the hundreds, shattering their fragile little bodies with each swipe of their swords, saving all of mankind. 

“One night, as I was finishing the story for the hundredth time, William turned to me and said, ‘An intrusion.’ And I told him, ‘No, it was an *invasion*, son.’ That kid looked me dead in the eye and says, ‘A group of cockroaches is called an *intrusion*, Papa.’ He said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, and I was stunned stupid. Here was this eight year old kid, schooling me on the correct terminology for a group of cockroaches,” he says with a laugh. 

“He’s intelligent,” Scully says, the smile on her face reflecting the pride that swells within her. 

“Just like his mother,” John says with a nod. “That’s what I told him. ‘That’s something your mother would say.’”

Scully sucks in a sharp breath and holds it, her lungs burning with John’s statement, then slowly releases it, exhaling the sudden shame she feels like the smoke of a cigarette. 

“The, um, cockroaches,” she says finally after searching for something to say. “You told him about our actual cases?”

“Like I said the other night, you guys and your lives made for some great stories. I wanted him to know you, to know his parents, and that was the best way for me to relay your experiences to a kid.” John shifts his weight on the stairs and turns to Scully. “Even though you weren’t there, Dana, I did what I could to share my time with him with you. You and Mulder were there every night with us, saving the world and protecting him from the bad shit that’s out there.”

Scully’s mouth hangs open as a slew of new questions graze across her tongue, but she swallows them. The smile that spreads across her face is warm, genuine. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” John shrugs. “I mean, I did the best that I could under the circumstances, but I think he turned out to be a good kid. He’s smart, Dana. And funny. He’s got that dry sense of humor like his dad, but he comes up with these one-liners that will shut you right up,” he says with a laugh. “This one time, this old man on the compound was skulking around all day complaining about a stench. He’d been searching high and low for hours, dipping into people’s tents, lifting up lids to bins…he was getting on everyone’s nerves. Finally, he walks up to William and asks, ‘You smell that, kid?’ And William just looks at him and says, ‘Maybe it’s your upper lip.’”

John bursts out in laughter and smacks his hand against his thigh, as Scully laughs equally as hard. 

“It was-” he laughs, “Oh, Christ, Dana, you should have seen the man’s face!”

—-

With a breathed, ‘Finally,’ Skinner takes the turn into the driveway slowly, careful not to kick up too much dust in their wake as they inch towards the house. Mulder’s eyes strain to focus on the two figures on the porch, Scully’s striking red hair gleaming under the falling sun sitting next to someone. For the first time in months, hope surges through him as he thinks of the pipe dream that he’s held onto for so long. What he had deemed silly and careless before was finally coming to fruition; Scully is bonding with their son. 

In their time on the run, once the sharp, nervous tension of getting apprehended had settled into merely a lingering ache, Mulder had found himself fantasizing as they would drive through the desert to their next destination. As the sandy expanse ran for miles and miles around them, he’d allow his mind to wander and create visions of Scully with their son. Helping him with his math homework over another batch of lukewarm cocoa; singing that Irish lullaby that her own mother used to sing to her as she tucked William in for bed; the lecture she would give him about brushing his teeth effectively and the health benefits of flossing. 

He never dared to speak any of his daydreams out loud, because during their days on the run, William had quickly become a taboo subject, a topic only to be spoken of when absolutely necessary. 

Mulder shudders. When had their son become just a ‘topic’ or a ‘subject’ to avoid?

As they pull up to the house and the people on the porch come into clear view, Mulder’s heart rate slows to a leaden thud. It isn’t William making her laugh, he realizes and he feels his blood pressure begin to rise. It’s John Doggett.

“Easy, Mulder,” he hears Skinner warn as he throws the SUV into park, but Mulder waves him off.

The fact that he hasn’t seen Scully laugh like that, a real belly laugh and not just a humoring chuckle, isn’t lost on him. The fact that he hasn’t been the one to make her laugh like that in months isn’t lost on him either. He watches as Scully wipes her cheeks dry and then pat John Doggett’s knee. He watches as John Doggett leans into Scully and says something that makes her laugh again. Perhaps, he thinks as his blood pressure continues to rise, he’s not as ‘harmless’ as he’d thought.

In the blink of an eye, Scully is at his side wedged between the passenger side door and the truck, checking Mulder’s face and neck manually for lesions and bruising before he’s able to get out of the vehicle. “I’m fine, Scully,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even as he gently pushes her hand aside. “Let me get out of here.”

“I’m not seeing any…Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, running her hands down the length of his arms and chest, her fingertips brushing away the edges of the anger that had manifested inside of him. “You’re still recovering, Mulder, and you’re so pale. I should have never let you go, you need to be resting.”

Mulder gives her shoulder a squeeze of reassurance as he eases himself from the SUV and shuts the door behind him. John stands at the bottom of the stairs and offers Mulder a wave, as Skinner’s words run through Mulder’s mind. ‘A fox sniffing around your den.’ Mulder clenches his jaw, ignoring him, and turns to Scully. “I’m okay. Hey, I have someone that wants to see you.”

He pulls an excited Daggoo from the backseat and places him in Scully’s arms.

“Hey there,” she coos as the dog licks at her neck and jawline. “How was it out there, Mulder? How did everything go?” she asks as she tilts her head from side to side, trying to avoid Daggoo’s attempts to lick her face.

“Let’s head inside,” Mulder answers as he swings Scully’s duffel onto his shoulder. “I grabbed a few things from your apartment for you.”

“Mulder.”

“We’ll talk,” he assures her, and gestures towards the house. Skinner and John have already gone inside leaving just the two of them in the driveway. “Let’s just do it inside where everyone can hear.”

Her eyes rake over his face, searching his features for access to whatever he’s hiding from her, and he turns towards the house.

“Come on, Scully, it’s gonna be dark soon,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t want that little dog of yours getting snatched by a coyote.” 

She follows him up the stairs and through the front door, hugging Daggoo close. “There aren’t coyotes in Virginia, Mulder.”

“They’re rare in this area, but there have been sightings. Just ‘cause you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Mulder says as he drops her bag on the couch. 

John and Skinner stand in the doorway to the kitchen, both holding glasses of water and mindlessly watching the interaction. Mulder locks eyes with John and feels his blood pressure begin to rise again. 

Mulder crosses to Scully, places his hand on her lower back and brushes his lips across her cheek. “After all of these years with me, you should know that rule by now, Agent Scully.”

He smiles to himself when Scully rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away. He turns his gaze to John, who is intensely focusing on his glass of water.

“What hasn’t she seen?” William asks as he enters the living room. “Hey, cool! Whose dog?”

Daggoo barks excitedly as Scully sets him down to the floor, and she smiles as he scurries to William, immediately jumping to lick his face. “His name’s Daggoo.”

The dog rolls onto his back and kicks out his legs. “He’s yours?” William asks as he rubs his belly.

Scully nods.

“Can I take him outside and play with him?” William leans down close to the dog and mutters, “You’d like that, boy, wouldn’t you? Wanna go play?”

“Of course,” Scully says while glancing at John. He offers her a simple smile, refusing to give her the permission she’s seeking. It’s not needed. “It’s getting dark out, so don’t go too far,” she insists as William sweeps the dog into his arms and heads for the front door. “He doesn’t know the area, and we don’t want either of you getting lost.”

“And watch out for those coyotes!” Mulder hollers from the kitchen. 

Daggoo wiggles in his arms as William stops in the doorway and turns, his eyebrows furrowed with confusion. Scully shakes her head and waves him ahead. “Don’t listen to him.”

William nods, and then disappears out the front door. 

“Mulder, I swear-” Scully starts.

“We saw a supersoldier,” Mulder says, interrupting her. 

Scully’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Now, wait a second, we don’t know for sure-” Skinner starts.

“How do you know?” John asks. 

“Skinner, you and I both know that man was not a normal man,” Mulder says. 

“Dammit, Mulder,” Skinner huffs. “You’re jumping to conclusions-”

“Wait, hey, hold on!” Scully yells, quieting all of the men that are talking over each other. They all fall silent and stare at her. “Sit down, all of you.”

Everyone takes a seat around the living room, with Mulder and Scully sitting on the couch, and Skinner and John in chairs opposite them. 

“Mulder, tell me what happened,” Scully says.

Skinner groans and Mulder shoots him a look. Skinner holds his hands up, palms out. 

Mulder relays the event that they witnessed earlier in the day at the last gas station, telling Scully and John in great detail about the man who had been shot point blank in the chest. “He got back up, Scully, as if nothing had even happened. A supersoldier.”

She stares at Mulder, speechless. It has been ages since she’s heard the term used, so long that she’s not sure she can even remember the last time she’s heard it come from someone’s mouth. Her shoulders slump as she allows herself to lean back into the couch, and she closes her eyes. As soon as her eyes shut, her mind is assaulted with visions of Billy Miles and the hoard of supersoldiers surrounding her in that rundown house. She can still feel the utter fear that ran through her as she birthed her son, pushing him into the world as they watched, screaming that they couldn’t have her baby.

“What is this,” John asks, “like a rogue supersoldier just walking the earth?”

“I don’t think so,” Mulder says.

“He could have been on drugs,” Skinner suggests. “Methamphetamines have been known to-” He stops talking when both Mulder and Scully glare at him. He sits back into the chair and sighs. “Or it could have been a supersoldier.”

Mulder leans forward. “Why are you trying so hard to deny this?”

“Because what does it mean for the world if you’re right?” Skinner asks. 

“It means what I said in the truck earlier,” Mulder replies. He looks to John, then Scully. “It means that they’re the next phase.”

Scully’s eyebrows furrow.

“Next phase?” John asks. “Phase of what?”

“It doesn’t make sense for this virus to have been released and for it to be the only plan of attack. That’s putting a lot of faith in one event to eradicate human civilization. Too much faith, if you ask me. Even our military has plans of operation consisting of multiple phases or waves to ensure a successful execution. Plan A leads to Plan B leads to Plan C, we win,” Mulder says. “It’s a simple strategy that has worked time and time again.”

Scully fights the urge to open a window as Mulder’s explanation hangs heavily in the living room, the air growing thick with tension and a sense of defeat. “How many do you think there are?” she asks.

Mulder shrugs. “No idea. Hundreds? Thousands?”

“This is just one of your hunches, though, right Mulder?” John asks. “I mean, like Skinner said, we don’t actually know.”

Mulder says nothing. Skinner clears his throat and casts his eyes to the toes of his boots. 

Scully stands suddenly and says, “I’m going to get William.” None of the men try to stop her as she crosses to the door quickly and calls for him. Her heart begins to race in her chest as her eyes scan the dark landscape outside, searching for her son. The back of her neck prickles as she waits for his response, drawing her hand to mindlessly cover the skin below her hairline. She calls for him again. 

“Coming!” she hears him yell, and sighs with relief. 

William barrels up the stairs of the front porch and through the door, with Daggoo following quickly behind him. “Come on, boy- woah,” he says skidding to a halt just beyond the threshold. His fingers immediately find his temples and begin to apply pressure. 

“William, are you okay?” Scully asks as she tentatively places her hand on the boy’s shoulder. She glances at John, who looks at William with concern. \

“Um,” he says as he squeezes his eyes shut, continuing to rub circles on the sides of his head. The room is congested with raw anxiety, its pressure building into a throbbing headache. “Yeah,” he lies. He forces his eyes open and looks at Scully, offering her a weak smile. “I’m okay. I just need to lay down.”

“It’s been a long day,” John adds. “And we’re all running on minimal sleep.”

“Yeah, I just need, uh, some sleep,” William says with a nod, and then winces. His fingers find his temples again.

“Do you need something?” Scully asks. “Tylenol? A glass of water?”

“No, thank you. I’m just gonna head upstairs, if that’s okay.”

Scully smiles, “Of course.”

“G’night,” William says, and the adults watch as Daggoo follows him upstairs, listening for the door to snick closed. 

“These supersoldiers,” Skinner says once he’s sure William is out in his room and out of earshot. “I thought they were government made.”

“It was my understanding that they were,” Mulder says. He shifts his weight on the couch, allowing Scully plenty of room when she takes her seat next to him. 

“Mine as well,” Scully says. 

“Well, that makes no sense. It’s the aliens that are starting this… apocalypse, right?” John says. “So what are these government produced supersoldiers doing as the aliens second phase?”

Mulder sighs. He looks to Scully for an answer, but she shakes her head. He looks then to Skinner who also shakes his head. “That appears to be the million dollar question, John.”

“I think that if we’re correct in assuming that the supersoldiers are, in fact, the second phase in this highly orchestrated plan of attack on humanity, the million dollar question would be: what is the third phase?” Scully asks dryly. 

The men in the room all turn to look at her with varying degrees of surprise on their face, though none of them utters a word. 

“And when can we expect it?” she adds at length. 

The dimly lit room seems to grow infinitely darker as all three men deflate into themselves, her queries siphoning what little energy they had left leaving the atmosphere in the house as barren and dreary as what remains outside.

“We’re getting nowhere,” John utters.

“We just need more time,” Scully says, her voice quiet.

Mulder chews the corner of his mouth, staring at the surface of the coffee table.

“Time for what exactly?” John asks.

John nearly flinches as Scully’s eyes bore into him. “To plan,” she answers finally, “to figure everything out.”

John stands and meets her gaze. “Seems to me, Dana, that time only brings more problems and death.”

“Now, listen-” Mulder starts, but John crosses the floor swiftly and begins to ascend the stairs.

“I’m getting some shut eye,” John says over his shoulder. “Maybe things’ll look brighter in the morning,” he adds before disappearing around the corner.

“I’ll take the couch again,” Skinner says. He watches as Mulder shoulders her duffel bag, then turns to Scully and holds out his hand.

“Don’t worry about him, Scully,” Mulder says to Scully. “You ready?”

Skinner looks away, finding anything else to look at as she locks eyes with Mulder and hesitates. In the time that he’s known them, even when they were at odds, they were connected. She had always been fierce in her loyalty to her partner, her trust in him and his methods never seeming to waver. He can recall countless times that they sat side by side in his office, jumping at the bit to defend the other and their sometimes outlandish methods of investigation. Throughout the years their bond only seemed to grow stronger, impenetrable. Their partnership and commitment to each other one of the few constants in the world.

So how the hell did they let it get this bad, he wonders. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her nod her head and slip her hand into Mulder’s. 

“Good night,” she says over her shoulder as Mulder leads her to the stairs. 

“Night,” Skinner calls and collapses with exhaustion into the cushions. His eyelids grow heavy as he lay his head on the armrest. They’ll figure it out, he assures himself. 

Upstairs, Mulder closes their bedroom door behind them, offering them a small bit of privacy which is growing more and more rare by the day.

“What was it like?” Scully asks. “Out there, near the city.”

When he looks at her, he’s taken aback by how fragile she looks as she sits on the edge of their bed. She slouches as she watches him, waiting for an answer. Her shoulders hang heavy under her shirt, as if weighted down by the collapsing world she’s inquiring about. The world he spent much of his life trying to save. He wonders if her tired eyes see him for who he really is, a failure. 

“I love you,” he says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and shoves his hands in his pockets. 

She rolls her eyes. “Mulder, do you really want to get into this right now?”

“With everything falling apart around us, Scully, I just need you to know that that’s never changed. My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mulder,” she says with a sigh. She squeezes the soft flesh above her nose then drops her hand back into her lap and looks pointedly at him. A year’s worth of dancing around the subject burns the back of her throat like vomit, and before she can stop it, she purges. “I’ve never questioned your love for me. Not once. But the day you stopped choosing me over the darkness was the day that your love for me became irrelevant.”

Mulder deflates before her eyes, his chin dropping to his chest as he nods to the floor. 

“Christ,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” she whispers back. 

When he lifts his eyes to hers, she can see the pleading behind them before he speaks. 

“You want to come back from this, right?” he asks. 

Her head tilts to the side as she offers him a gentle smile. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

A wordless, mutual agreement passes between the two of them, and for the first time in ages, Scully feels as if they’re on the right track. 

After holding her gaze for another moment, he turns and pulls his shirt over his head with a swift yank. Though his somber face and unruly hair give the impression of a man who’s close to giving up, his body tells the story of a man who’s stayed physically active. Her eyes trail down the muscles of his back and shoulders as they flex and stiffen when he tosses his t-shirt into the corner. Taut muscles that she can still feel under her fingers if she allows her consciousness access to the vivid memories. The expanse of his body, like the acreage of field surrounding their house that she’s walked countless times, is forever etched into her brain. In her mind, she’s able to walk every inch of him with her fingertips, having mapped and memorized every lean plane and dipping ridge of his six foot frame years before. 

The thump of his boots falling to the floor is followed by the unzipping of his pants. She watches as his thumbs run underneath the waistband of his jeans, edging them down his thighs to his ankles. A familiar warmth flutters to life in her lower belly at the sight of him in just his boxer shorts, humming deep to where her legs meet. 

With a shake of her head, she turns and busies herself with her duffel bag, pulling the items out one by one and setting them in a nice, folded pile on top of the bed. She tries not to watch from the corner of her eye as he bends over, pulling his jeans over his feet and depositing them into a heap with his t-shirt. When she reaches the bottom of the bag, she thrusts her hands into the side pockets, digging around the few miscellaneous tubes and bottles.

“Mulder?” Her voice is higher than intended, and she clears her throat. “Did you think to grab me pajamas?”

She hears him utter, “Shit,” and then begin rummaging through the top drawer of the dresser. 

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice rough as he stands just inches from her nearly naked with an old t-shirt in hand. “I was in a hurry.”

“S’fine,” Scully mumbles, and takes the shirt. “Thank you.”

She excuses herself to the bathroom and quickly closes the door behind her, leaning her weight against it. Her arousal is a typical psychological response to grief, the search for something life-affirming to cling to, she reasons with herself. Her emotions have been stripped bare over the last few days, leaving her raw with vulnerability, desperate for an emotional connection. Struggling with the conscious and unconscious fear of loneliness that comes with the impending extinction of human civilization.

Willing her body to calm down, she concentrates on the smell of the Ivory soap that permeates in the small room as she takes her time stripping the clothing from her body. The shirt falls nearly to her knees, and she’s engulfed in a familiar scent, the smell of him.

As she opens the door and steps into the bedroom, she stops in her tracks.

“Hey, is this okay?” Mulder asks as he lay under the covers on his side of the bed. “I mean, I know it was last night, but that was…” He pauses, not wanting to bring up that topic of conversation again. The subject of which lay sleeping in the room next to them. “I can sleep on the floor, if it’s not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scully says, feigning indifference although her heart is racing and her palms have started to sweat. It’s just a psychological reaction, she assures herself for the second time as she crosses to her side of the bed and eases herself under the blanket. Even with the foot of mattress that separates them, she can feel his body heat as soon as her face rests on the pillow, with her knees brushing the far edge of the bed. The sheets even smell the same, she realizes, and she’s surprised she didn’t notice it the night before. Being here in their bed, with him laying next to her in the dark, the sound of his even breathing, it’s almost as if the last year hasn’t happened. Almost.

“It feels good having you home,” she hears him whisper. 

She remembers when they first purchased this bed, their first ‘big’ purchase after she bought the house. Mulder had been content with a used mattress set from the Salvation Army located in the next town over, but she’d insisted on a new one. The afternoon it was delivered Mulder made quick work to set up the bed frame and dress the bed as soon as the mattresses were in place. When she had returned home from her first interview that day, he was eager to get her to their bedroom, persuading her as he removed each piece of her clothing of its dire need to be broken in. 

They broke it in three times that night and once the next morning. 

“It does,” she whispers. 

—

John grunts as William tosses in bed again.

“You about done?” he asks.

“Sorry,” William mutters. 

“Can’t sleep?” John asks. “There’s always the floor if you need more room.”

“The floor?”

“You’re back is about thirty-five years younger than mine, son,” John says. “It can handle a night on the floor. I’ll throw you an extra pillow.”

“Do we need to get you a walker and a room at an old folks home?”

“Watch it kid,” John says with a bark of laughter. After a few moments of silence, he finally asks, “You got somethin’ you want to talk about?”

“Not really.”

“‘K,” John says then turns to his side. 

“It’s just that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” William says.

—-

The sound of John’s laugh can be heard through the thin wall, catching Mulder and Scully’s attention. 

“I’ve stayed at roach motels that have thicker walls,” Mulder whispers. 

Scully rolls to face him and smiles into the pillow. 

“You got somethin’ you want to talk about?” They hear John ask, followed by some inaudible mumbling.

“It’s just that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” comes William’s voice, loud with frustration. “I don’t know what I was expecting, Papa, but this ain’t it. I didn’t think that when I finally met them that it would be some big family reunion, full of hugs and… like, an instant connection, or something. But they looked at me like I was a complete stranger, like they had no idea who I even was.”

Scully watches as Mulder stiffens and closes his eyes after she inhales sharply through her nose. 

“They haven’t seen you in years, William,” they hear John say.

“I know, but don’t you think they’d have even an inkling of who I was? You’ve said it yourself, I look just like them.”

Guilt floods through her as she hears his words, knowing he’s right. Although it’s inconceivable that after fourteen years she would recognize her child immediately, deep down she always thought she would. Mulder last saw his son when he was just a few days old, but she had spent a year with him. She had memorized his facial features, each grey speck in his blue eyes. She should have known the second she lay eyes on him. 

Mulder’s hand grasps hers under the blanket and gives it a squeeze. She grips his fingers tight, absorbing whatever strength he has to give from their connection as they eavesdrop, listening to their estranged son pour his feelings onto the man who raised him. 

“All those stories you told me when I was a kid,” William says. “The tales of the two warriors who would go to the end of the earth fighting for each other, for everyone else. You made it seem like failure wasn’t an option, Papa, like they were epic.”

“They were, Will. They are. The things your parents experienced, the sacrifices they made-”

“I know,” they hear William draw out. “Giving me up to keep me safe was the ultimate sacrifice. You just-” he pauses. When he starts talking again, his tone is quieter, and Mulder and Scully both find themselves holding their breath to hear him. “You made them seem…untouchable, when really they’re just two regular people who still can’t seem to get their shit together. I guess I just expected more.”

Mulder’s breath rushes out with the force of a hurricane, and Scully squeezes her eyes shut in hopes of stifling both the tears that threaten to fall and the sob that’s building in her chest. Their son’s disappointment rings in their ears as Mulder pulls Scully into his arms, any awkwardness from earlier diminished as she presses her face into his chest. 

“If you met your parents under different circumstances,” they hear John say after a few moments, “you’d think of them like I do, see the warriors I’ve told you about. Give it time, son. Look harder. ”

Scully wedges her arms into the tight space between her and Mulder and covers her ears with her hands to block out their voices, replacing their hushed tones with the dull thumping of her heartbeat behind her palms. If it wasn’t for the vibration reverberating through his chest under her face, she would have no idea that Mulder was talking to her, murmuring words of comfort she assumes. She presses her hands harder to her ears until they ache, instead concentrating on the trail of his fingertips along the length of her spine, each pass a suture to stitch up her freshly shattered heart.

His musky scent overwhelms her, reminding her of days past when just his presence had the ability to bring light into the darkness that threatened to swallow her, promising her of better times to come, ensuring her that she would soon feel better.

Her body jerks as she flinches under the weight of his arm, and inhales sharply through her nose as he pulls her closer. She doesn’t want to feel better. She doesn’t deserve to.

What feels like hours pass before they fall into a fitful sleep with their limbs entwined.

—-

Mulder notices the loss of warmth next to him first, then the creak of the floorboards under her weight as she ambles her way across their room. He can just make out her small frame under the glow of the moonlight that cascades through the slit of their curtains, while her light auburn hair gleams brilliantly in a chaotic mess along the width of her shoulders.

“Scully?” His voice is thick with sleep and louder than he intended, but his calling falls on deaf ears as she continues her path across the threshold and into the dark hallway. He watches as she passes the bathroom without so much of a glance and turns towards the stairway. The floor feels cool under his feet as he climbs out of their bed, cursing himself for not grabbing a shirt to shield himself from the chill of the night as he scurries to follow her down the stairs. 

In all of the years that they’ve lived together, he’s never known her to sleep walk, but so much can change in a few months time of separation, he thinks. People are able to change with a great deal of effort, break habits, take on new ones, especially when they’re determined to leave the past mistakes behind. 

“Scully, stop,” he whispers harshly so not to wake anyone as he follows her padding through their living room. Her feet shuffle along at a slow, purposeful pace as her arms lay limp at her sides, her body weaving as graceful as a ballerina around furniture towards the front door.

“Mulder?” Skinner calls from the couch. “Is everything okay?”

He ignores Skinner as he circles around Scully, placing himself directly in front of her. Her eyelids are slitted open but heavy with sleep as she comes to a halt just inches from him, while her lips move quickly as she mumbles under her breath. He tucks his finger just under her chin and tilts her face upwards, but her eyes remain empty and unfocused.

“Scully,” he says gently. “You need to wake up.”

“No, don’t wake her.” Mulder turns quickly to find John standing next to him, as if guarding Scully. “You’re not supposed to wake someone that’s sleep-walking. Just guide her back to bed.”

“Don’t ask how I know, because I don’t have an answer, but she’s not sleep-walking,” Mulder answers, his eyes not leaving her face as he shifts his body to the side, easing himself between John and Scully. Neither the movement nor the unspoken message are lost on John. 

“She is,” John insists, while taking a step towards her. “And if you wake her, she could injure herself. My boy used to sleepwalk when he was young-”

“Dammit, she’s not!” Mulder hisses. He turns towards John, his chest full and shoulders square. “John, I am well aware of the psychological effects of waking a sleep-walker, if they are in fact sleep-walking. And if you call William your boy one more time-”

“Luke! I was talking about my son, Luke, Mulder.”

As they argue, Scully pushes past Mulder and continues her path through the front door and onto the porch, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Shit.” Mulder rushes after her, fear prickling his skin with each pass of her hand across her neck. Her body sways as she walks down the steps before continuing into the grass. “Scully, stop!”

“What’s going on?” Skinner asks as he catches up with Mulder, with John on his heels. 

“I don’t know,” Mulder says, and he grabs Scully’s arm to pull her to a stop. She tips her head back and yells loudly, then roughly pulls from his grasp. Her arms fall back to her sides as her feet carry her forward through the tall grass. “I think she’s being called, summoned…something,” Mulder utters as he follows her.

“Summoned by who?” John asks incredulously, then looks around. “We gotta stop her, she’ll get hurt out here.”

Mulder attempts to grab her arm again, and is caught off guard when she swings her other arm around slamming her fist into the side of his face. “Fuck,” he grunts, taking the blow, then grabs the offending hand, quickly pulling both hands behind her back. 

She screams and flails her body, arching her back to slam her head into his chest. 

“Jesus, Scully, stop!” Mulder yells as he struggles to hold her wrists. She twists her body and turns quickly, freeing one of her arms, and elbows him square in the jaw.

Skinner rushes to Mulder’s aid as John circles in front of her and holds out his hand in front of him to stop her. 

“Dana-” 

Mulder and Skinner watch as she walks up to him and grasps his hand. Before they can blink, her other hand snakes around the back of his neck, pulling him close as her knee jerks upwards. John howls in pain as her knee connects with his groin, and falls to the ground, pulling Scully down with him. 

Her lips move quickly as she continues to mumble under her breath. John shields his face as Scully crawls over him, her fingernails digging into his flesh as her knees scramble across his torso, pushing her forward. 

Mulder hurries behind her and wraps his arms around her waist from behind, lifting her off the ground. Her arms and legs flail into the air, kicking and swinging as he turns towards the house.

“Grab her legs!” Mulder yells. “She’s gonna hurt herself!”

As Skinner rushes in to make the attempt, the heel of her foot collides with the center of his chest, knocking the wind out of him with a grunt. He stumbles back, but quickly gathers his bearings and pushes on, wrapping his arm tightly around her ankles.   
John limps ahead of them and stands at the front door. She releases another high pitched scream and her head thrashes side to side against Mulder’s chest as they side-step to carry her up the stairs and begin to maneuver through the front door. 

“Easy!” Mulder hisses.

“I’m trying here,” Skinner says through clenched teeth. “She keeps kicking.”

Mulder jerks her body upwards and squeezes his arms around her waist as he walks backwards up the stairs towards their bedroom. Her hands claw at his forearms, digging deep scratches from wrist to elbow as her legs thrust into Skinner’s arms.

“For someone who doesn’t weigh one-hundred pounds soaking wet, she’s strong as hell,” Skinner utters. 

One foot breaks free from Skinner’s grasp, and she kicks her foot into his side, sending her upper body up and into Mulder, her head thrusting into Mulder’s jaw. The force of the kick causes Skinner to lose grip of her other foot, and sends him tumbling down the stairs. 

Mulder yells. “Sonofa-”

His expletive is interrupted with another scream ripping from her throat. John turns on their bedroom light just as Mulder pulls her kicking and screaming into the room. 

“Scarves and ties in the closet,” Mulder yells over her wails, and both of them collapse onto the bed. She pushes back at Mulder as he uses his body weight against her, forcing her back into the mattress as he grasps her wrists. Her heels dig into the bed on the sides of his legs and she thrusts her pelvis up, bucking the two of them off the mattress. “Hurry the fuck up!”

Skinner and John hurry to tie her wrists to the headboard as Mulder continues struggling to hold her down.

“Fight it, Scully, please,” Mulder begs as he pushes back the sweaty hair that clings to her face. Blood from his nose drips onto the side of her neck as he uses his leg and arm to hold her still. “Shhhh, baby, fight it and come back.”

“She’s secured,” Skinner says as he leans against the wall, his hand on his heaving chest. His eyes are wild as he looks to Mulder, then John. “Now what?”

“Mulder you can’t hold her down all night,” John says. 

“What else am I supposed to do?” he yells as she arches her back beneath his arm and releases a blood curdling scream again. Her head thrashes back and forth as she pulls roughly at the ties at her wrist, shaking the headboard and sending it thumping against the wall. “She’s completely-

Then suddenly her body falls completely limp and screaming ceases. Mulder sees another hand grasping her arm and looks over to see William is standing next to her, gripping just below her wrist.

Confused, Mulder stares at his son. “What the hell?”

William meets his eyes, a crease forming between his brows, but says nothing.

Mulder presses his fingertips to her neck to check her pulse, and is relieved to find it strong and steady. His breath is shaky as he sighs and drops his forehead to the side of her face, pressing a light kiss to her jaw. 

“Are you-” Mulder starts as he turns to address his son, but stops once he see’s the small bead of blood trickling down the short space from his nose to the top of his lip. “Will, your nose.”

William promptly wipes the blood away with the back of his free hand and sniffles sharply. He turns to see John and Skinner watching him intently and offers them a nod. “I’m fine.”

Mulder swears he can feel his heart splinter within his chest as the words leave his son’s mouth, dangerously reminiscent to over two decades ago when his mother uttered the same empty reassurance from behind a blood soaked tissue.

“No, I can hold her down,” Mulder insists. “You don’t have to hurt yourself-”

“I said I’m fine,” William says with the same urgency, tightening his grip on Scully’s arm. “It’s nothing. It happens sometimes.”

“How are you stopping it?”

William’s eyes fall to Scully’s now peaceful face, and after a moment he shakes his head. “I can’t explain how, but I am.”

Mulder eases himself to the edge of the bed and runs his hands over his face, wincing as his fingers make contact with his left eye and his nose.

“You guys should go clean up,” William says. “Ice those bruises before they swell.”

“You sound like your mother,” Mulder says with a chuckle, then freezes as he realizes what he’s just said. He throws a hesitant glance towards William. Relief floods through him as he sees the smile spread across his son’s face. “You sure you’ll be okay sitting here with her for a few minutes? I guess I would like to clean myself up, assess the damage,” Mulder says as his fingers graze along his occipital bone again.

“Yeah, go ahead,” William answers immediately. He looks to John and smiles. “We’ll be fine, Papa.”

“The three of us need to talk, Will, but we’ll be right out in the hall,” John says. “You just holler if you need anything.”

William nods.

“Watch out for that one,” Mulder says gesturing to Scully as he follows John and Skinner to the door. He stops in the doorway and taps near the swelling skin under his eye with the tip of his finger. “She may be small but she’s got a mean left hook.”

—-

Freshly cleaned but bruised, Mulder and Skinner sit at the top of the stairs, with John a few stairs below. 

“You think it’s her chip?” Skinner asks.

Mulder purses his lips and nods. “This isn’t the first time the implants have been used to manipulate test subjects.”

“Ruskin Dam in ‘98,” John says as he leans into the wall behind him. “If it was gonna be anything like that, then we’re damn lucky Will was here to stop it.”

“Just like the other night on the bridge…” Mulder says, then turns to John. “Did you know that William had this ability?”

“How could I? It’s not everyday that someone…”

None of the men in the hallway hear the creak of the door behind them, or see Scully enter the hallway.

“…loses their shit like that. I did what I could to keep the kid sheltered, away from the majority of the population. No flying saucers, no people with chips in their necks, no supersoldiers.” 

Mulder turns to glance down the hallway and gasps when he sees Scully creeping blindly in their direction. Before the other men can react, he rushes over and swoops her into a fireman’s carry, and the screaming begins again. She thrashes, thrusting her knee into his gut and claws at his back.

William wakes immediately and rushes to her as Mulder carries her through the doorway and places his hand on her arm. She immediately falls limp and quiet over Mulder’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep,” William says quickly. “I must have moved, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Will,” Mulder says. 

William moves with his mother, lightly gripping her arm as Mulder lay her back on the bed. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mulder says again as he covers her legs with the blanket. He reaches over and squeezes his son’s shoulder. “You’re doing great, kid.”

“I untied her wrists because her arms were getting cold. I didn’t think it would happen again, I thought it was over,” he says as he looks down at where his and Scully’s flesh meet. 

Mulder follows William’s gaze to Scully who now lay peacefully in their bed. The thought of restraining her again draws a grimace from him, even with the knowledge of what would happen if he doesn’t. The damage she inflicted on them physically could be just a drop in the bucket compared to what she was walking towards, and that’s a risk he isn’t willing to take. 

With a heavy sigh and a silent apology, he moves to tie her wrists, then her ankles. 

“Mulder, I can stay in here with them,” John softly offers.

“No, we’ll be fine,” Mulder says as he finishes tightening the knot around her ankle.

John clears his throat and takes a step towards Mulder. “But William-”

“I’ll be fine, Papa,” William says. “Really.”

A look of surprised flashes across John’s face, but he shakes it away with a simple nod. “All right then,” he says as he turns towards the door. Before he exits he adds, “I’ll be in the guest room if you need me.”

Mulder grabs a spare pillow and throw blanket, and tosses them to the floor. 

“You don’t have to sleep down there,” William says as he lay down next to Scully, careful not to jostle her as he pulls a pillow under his head and keeps his grip on her arm at the same time. 

“Even when not under a chip induced trance, she’s a vicious bed hog,” Mulder says with a chuckle. He grunts as he lowers himself to the floor. “Watch out for those elbows, or you might wake up with a shiner matching mine.”

The house falls quiet as the men take to rest, each with the same thought running circles through their minds: what could possibly be next?

—-

The sun rises too early the next morning for Scully, bringing with it a body full of achy muscles and a throbbing left hand. She groans as reality washes into the room with the warm light, a headache resonating deep into the base of her skull. As she attempts to roll to her side to alleviate the building pressure, she’s stopped by the restraints around her wrists. 

“What the hell?”

She turns her head quickly, and curses under her breath, immediately recognizing the ugly tie that binds each wrist. Panic sparks through her as she realizes she has absolutely no memory of the night before; no memory of why her wrists and ankles would be bound. The confusion she feels runs deeper as the boy lying at the foot of her bed grunts in his sleep, and she realizes with a start that it’s her son.

“William?” she croaks and then winces. Sleeping soundly, the boy doesn’t budge. She pulls at the wrist restraints in an effort to pull free, but instead they tighten. “William.”

The door to their bedroom opens and relief floods through her as Mulder walks into the room, with his head tipped downwards. “Hey, Scully, how are you feeling?”

“Mulder, why am I-” She gasps when he lifts his face, and lurches her body towards him only to be stopped by the restraints. His left eye is swollen with an angry purple bruise beneath it, his nose swollen as well. “Oh, my God, Mulder, what happened to you?”  
“Here, let me get these,” he says, and works quickly to untie her wrists. 

“What the hell happened?” she asks, this time more forcefully.

William stirs and wakes with a large yawn. “Oh, hey,” he says looking at Scully, “you’re up.”

Scully rubs her sore wrists as Mulder starts to untie her ankles, her eyes volleying between Mulder and her son. “One of you had better start talking.”

“I, uh, I need to use the restroom,” William says as he climbs from the bed and quickly exits out the door.

“Traitor,” Mulder mutters.

“Mulder.”

“It’s not that bad,” he says. He digs through the dresser and pulls out a pair of her old sweat pants, then hands them to her. 

Scully feels her face blush as she accepts them, not even realizing until now that she wasn’t wearing any. “Someone beat the hell out of you,” she says as she slips the pants over her hips, then hisses as she bumps her knuckles on the edge of the bed. Red and swollen, the pain in her knuckles intensify as she flexes her fingers, and her brows cinch. “I…Mulder?”

He gingerly sits next to her on the bed, places a sweatshirt in her lap, and smirks. “You should see the other guys.”

Scully gasps. 

“I did this?” she asks as she gently touches the bruising that’s developing along the sides of his nose. 

He flinches and pulls away. “Easy there doc, it’s sore.”

“What about…”

“We’re all fine,” he reassures her.

She stands and pulls the sweatshirt over her head, mindful of her left hand. “Where are they?”

“Downstairs,” he replies, then quickly stands to follow her as she leaves the room. “Scully, wait a sec.”

She ignores him and barrels down the stairs and through the living room. She comes to a halt as she crosses into the kitchen, taken aback by the bruised and battered faces staring back at her as they sip coffee around the table. 

She barely feels Mulder’s hand at the small of her back as her hand covers her mouth and she utters through her fingers, “Oh my God.”

“Morning, slugger,” John deadpans, as Skinner offers her a weak smile. Between them, William scoops a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and waves with his free hand.

They’re making light of it, she realizes. Whatever ‘it’ is. She steps closer and allows herself to take it all in: the bruising peeking above the neckline of Skinner’s shirt and the golf ball sized goose egg just above his temple, the deep scratches that have started scabbing on John’s cheeks and along his arms.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers. She turns to Mulder with wide eyes. “What happened?”

He stares at her for a moment, and understanding crashes into her once he slips his hand to the back of her neck and places his finger atop the small scar that resides there.

She reaches her hand around and places it on top of his. “The chip?”

He purses his lips and nods. 

She winces. “You’re sure?”

Mulder allows his hand to slip to the side of her neck and runs his thumb along her jawline. “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

She looks back to the men at the table and guilt floods through her. She stumbles backwards a few steps, unable to take her eyes off of them. “I, uh, I need some air.”

“Scully, wait,” Skinner says, as John calls her name. Mulder reaches for her but she flinches and pulls her hands away. 

“I’ll be right back,” she utters as she turns away, and then hurries through the living room and out the front door. 

“You didn’t tell her?” Skinner asks.

“I didn’t get the chance,” Mulder says as he grabs two prepared cups of coffee from the counter. “As soon as she realized you two were beat to shit, too, she raced downstairs.”

Without another word, Mulder follows Scully out the front door. He finds her sitting at the top of the steps, with her arms wound tightly around her middle as she stares out into the fields before their house. 

“Brought you some coffee,” he says as he sits next to her. 

She mutters her thanks as he places it in her hands.

“I woke up and you were gone,” Mulder says as he stares ahead of him. “At first I thought you might be sleepwalking, but…you weren’t there, Scully. It wasn’t you. As soon as I looked into your eyes, I was sure of it.”  
In his peripheral vision he sees her shrink into herself, his heart breaking as she pulls her limbs closer to her torso. 

“I tried to stop you,” he continues, “to turn you around, but you fought me.”

When she speaks her voice is small, a tone he hasn’t heard since…he shakes his head, not wanting to think about the last time he’s heard it. “And them?”

“They tried to help,” he says matter-of-factly.

As he continues the story and offers his theory regarding the third phase, she nods occasionally, his only indication that she’s listening to him. He watches the profile of her face as he speaks, sees the twinge in her jaw muscles as she fights to remain emotionless. Twice he reaches out to touch her, to hold her, but retreats at the last second. He isn’t sure that she notices. She just continues to stare ahead of them, refusing to look at him as the words pour delicately out of his mouth. 

She hears every word, absorbs each syllable into the core of her being as she fights the urge to reach behind her and claw the chip from her neck with her fingernails. Her skin prickles with sweat as she feels her blood pressure rise while he explains that with a simple touch William was able to break the trance. Her heart beats like a drum in her ears at the mere thought of her son seeing her like that, the lack of control over her own body and her actions, the inability to remember any of it. 

She shudders as his voice falls silent. She feels utterly violated.

“I have a scalpel in my medical bag,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even, and brings the mug to her lips. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Mulder says. “It’s not an option, Scully. End of story.”

“How can you say that? I can’t go on like this, Mulder, *we* can’t go on like this,” she nearly yells. “I’ve become a threat to you, to them. Look at you!”

Mulder pulls the mug from her hands that she hadn’t even realized were shaking, and sets it aside. “We’ll find a way to stop it, Scully. I promise.”

“How long can this go on?” she asks. Her mind reels at her own question, the words registering deep into her mind. Until this very moment, she hadn’t really considered that this horror could occur again. “What are we going to do, restrain me every night? Ties and scarves can only hold me for so long, Mulder.”

“William was able to break the transmission,” he tells her again. 

Scully scoffs. “Our son is not going to be forced to sleep with me each night, putting himself in danger. I won’t have it.”

“We don’t have many choices at the moment, Scully. Just give me some time.”

She shakes her head then puts her face in her hands. “You should have just let me go.”

She buries her face deeper into her hands as she feels his eyes on her, knowing he looks as if he’s just been slapped.

“Hey, uh, sorry to interrupt,” they hear John say from behind them.

“Then don’t interrupt,” Mulder says.

“Normally I wouldn’t but we have a problem,” John says. “The power’s out.”

Mulder sighs and turns to face John who stands in the doorway. “So, check the fuse box.”

“We did, power’s out in the whole house. You said you had a generator?”

“Back of the house,” Scully says lifting her head. “Mulder will show you where.”

When she turns to Mulder he’s already looking at her. 

“Go,” she says gently. 

Mulder shakes his head. “But Scully…”

A smile spreads across her face as she reaches across and takes Mulder’s hand in hers, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. “We’ll talk later. Go.”

Mulder returns her squeeze, pleading with his eyes for her not to make a decision without him, then stands and starts down the stairs. “Gas is in the shed.”

Scully stands and crosses the porch to John who is still standing in the doorway. “Go help him.” 

She enters the house, closing the door behind her, leaving the conversation between her and Mulder outside on the porch for a later time. The anger she had felt just moments ago drains slowly from her body as she walks to the kitchen, leaving her feeling antsy and in need of something to keep her hands busy. 

Tea, her mother used to say. A cup of tea always offers a new perspective.

“Can I help?” William asks, startling her as he comes to stand next to her at the sink. She nearly drops the tea kettle and matches.

The last thing she remembers of the night before was overhearing her son’s confession to John, his words of disappointment playing over and over in her mind as she drifted off to sleep. I wish we had met again under different circumstances, too, she thinks as she looks at him, memorizing each line and angle of his face. His bright blue eyes shine at her, and she wants so desperately to ask him the thousands of questions that run through her mind, but she doesn’t know which one begs more important.

“Of course,” she says as she hands him the kettle. Her hip leans into the counter as she watches him place the kettle on the stove and ignite the gas burner. Her heart feels as if it’s selling within her chest, and she’s amazed at how watching her son perform such a mundane task can bring her so much joy. The normalcy of it bringing a genuine smile to her face. All those years ago, this is what she had hoped for. She had wanted so desperately for him to be able to lead a normal life. 

Suddenly she remembers standing in the doorway to his nursery, watching as he telekinetically spun his mobile. And later as he moved the piece of the ship from Africa across his room, the shard hovering just a few feet above his face. She remembers the terror she felt every minute of every day, fearing for her son’s safety, crying on her bed for being so helpless to protect him. She stifles a gasp as an old wound around her heart tears open, each memory pulling an age old suture that only time can stitch.  
And now as her son pulls mugs from the cupboard and places them on the counter, she’s unable to look away, wondering what else is he able to do. Does he suffer from the same gift as Gibson Praise? Unable to stop the flood of other’s thoughts from seeping into his own?

“You can ask me anything, you know,” he offers quietly, staring at the sugar bowl that he spins with the tips of his fingers. 

“I,” she starts, “I, um, ok.”

“No, it’s not like that,” he says meekly.

Her eyebrow rises. “I’m sorry?”

“I said it’s not like that.”

“What? It’s not like what, William?”

“You’re wondering if I can read minds, right?” Scully’s eyebrow rises higher if even possible. “Papa said that you’ve met people that can, but I’m not like that. I, um, it’s more of a feeling for me, really. Like a magnetic sponge. People’s emotions are drawn to me when I’m close by, and my mind just kind of sucks them up.”

“A magnetic sponge,” Scully slowly repeats, and William nods.

“Not like a black hole, where they get sucked in and disappear. They’re emotions, they don’t disappear. They turn and change and shift.” He sighs. “The problem is that I can actually feel the emotions when I’ve taken them in. Like, if someone is really sad or angry, I feel sad or angry. The other night when you were scared that Mulder was going to die, you felt it so strongly. I’ve never felt that kind of fear before,” he adds with a shudder.

Scully’s eyes widen as the realization settles over her. “Oh, William, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he says with a shrug. “Really, it’s fine,” he adds when he sees that the look of horror is still on her face. “It just happened so suddenly that I wasn’t able to guard myself from it.”

“You’re able to guard yourself from other people’s emotions?”

“Yeah,” he says nodding. “Well, kind of. A woman we used to know taught me a few tricks on how to ground myself, to kind of shield myself from what others are projecting. I let my guard down in the hospital room, I guess I was too tired, and then Mulder was dying.” He pauses, turning to stare out the kitchen window. “I’m sorry you had to feel that kind of fear, Dana. I guess no matter how many times someone experiences that, the feeling that they’re about to lose someone they love, it never really gets old. It feels new every single time.” 

Scully stares at his profile, awestruck, as he continues to gaze out the window.

“You’re not scared of me,” he mumbles, a small smirk spreading across his face. “You’re curious, but you’re not afraid.”

“No,” she says. She hesitates as her hand hovers over his, before finally placing hers over his own. “Never afraid, William.”

“Thank you.” 

“How did you know-” she begins to ask, but is interrupted by a surge of light and power that floods through the house. 

“Power’s back!” William says with a smile.


	5. We All Fall Down

CHAPTER 5 

\-----

Sometimes, William wonders if it’s a curse, the ability to feel the way he does. Once, he was asked if it was like reading people’s minds, as if his empathy could be reduced to a simple word or sentence. He almost wishes he could, though. Maybe then he could just hear the words, instead of living their experience right alongside them. 

Of course, he’s learned how to distance himself from the burden of others’ pain and struggles. He’s had to. Though not something he remembers having his entire life, it’s only in the last couple of years that it’s grown the way it has, maturing as his own body matured into that of a man. 

Another’s anger and pain resonate in his chest, tingling down the center of his spine and settling in his belly like a stew gone bad. Sadness is heavy, like the overwhelming pressure one feels when slipping to the bottom of the deep end of a pool. Happiness is bright, a pure energy that tickles his chest. Suppressed emotions are interesting creatures, however, with their own sensation. For it’s suppressed emotions that fizz and fester, like an itch that can’t be reached, maddening in their desire to be set free. 

Everyone carries their own specific energy, like an aura that floats around them. Spending the last two days with this group has clued William in to the energies of the people around him. Some are steady and even, others intense and heavy, though not unpleasant. But there’s one person whose energy pulls at him differently, cumbersome and heavy in her tiny body. 

What it must feel like to keep her emotions bottled up like that, so tightly coiled within her that her energy radiates around her like a heavy cloud, he muses. 

He catches her eyes still studying his face as the lights flicker on with the restoration of the power. He can tell she wants to say something more, caught in a flurry of emotions that conflict her thoughts. Her eyes swirl with it. He can feel it bubbling in his belly, and it makes his eyes water before he has a chance to fight it. 

“Thank you for helping me,” she whispers, smiling through her teary eyes. 

He brushes off her gratitude, though he feels the warmth of her affection deep within him, and he ducks his chin before she can see the tinge of his cheeks. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he says, shuffling his feet. 

She reaches out to cup his face, lifting his chin. Blue eyes meet blue, and for the first time, he feels like he’s looking into the eyes of the mother he once knew. 

“Yes, William. It was.” 

“Scully!” he hears Mulder call, and Scully rolls her eyes before dropping her hands. 

“Yeah?” she hollers from the kitchen. 

The voice booms back. “Can we get your help for a second? No one else can fit in this crawl space!” 

“Yeah, just a second!” She smiles apologetically to William, and after gently swiping her hand across his cheek leaves him standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Be right back.” 

He nods and moves towards the fridge, rubbing his belly of his perennial teenage hunger pangs. He opens the fridge and peers inside, grabbing an apple and a can of soda to squelch his cravings. But, as he turns to walk away, his eyes catch sight of a small picture...of a light-haired baby staring up at the camera. 

He moves the magnet from its rightful hold, and slides the picture from under it. Turning it over, he frowns at the lack of identifying information. It could be anyone’s child, he muses, any baby boy, and yet-

“Everything okay?” 

William turns to the voice with a start, finding his father standing before him at the entry to the kitchen, eyeing the picture in his hands. 

“I, uh… I was hungry,” William explains, turning and replacing the magnet over the picture, delicately arranging it on the front of the fridge. 

Mulder nods, walking over to the sink and grabbing a glass. Using the silence to fill the empty space, he fills the glass with water, then gulps it in large sips. “That’s you,” Mulder says into the sink, and it takes William only a second to realize what he’s talking about -- who he’s talking about. 

“It is?” he asks as his head whips back to the photo, staring at it with wide eyes. 

Mulder leans against the sink, pausing with a pinch of his lips. “It’s the only photo I have, unfortunately,” he explains, but William shakes his head, adoring the picture reverently. 

“I’ve never,” William pauses, “I’ve never seen a photo of myself as a baby before.” He reaches his fingers up to trace the edge of the photo, but pulls them back at the last second, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a sideways glance. 

Mulder clears his throat and takes the photo from the fridge, studying it with a pained longing that William feels deep in his chest. “You hair was lighter,” he tells him with a hint of a smile, and William smiles as he takes the picture, holding it carefully between his fingers. “Scully had--,” he stops himself, pausing with a clearing of his throat. “Your mother had those taken when you were five months old, I think.” 

“I look so much like her, don’t you-” William lifts his eyes just as he says it, aware of the gripping squeeze of guilt that rumbles in his ribcage, finding Mulder nodding sadly, lost in his own world. 

“Was it hard,” William asks, “being away from us for so long?” Mulder meets his eyes and William continues. “Papa told me about the time you were away when I was baby.” He smiles down at the cherubic baby smiling up at the camera. “I guess it would have been around this time then, right?” 

Mulder nods with a thick swallow. His voice is sandpapery as it rumbles around his tongue. “Yes- erm, to both of your questions.” There’s a pause, an opening for a moment between father and son. After a shuddery breath, Mulder takes the plunge, diving into the conversation William can tell he’s waited fifteen years to have. “William, I want you to know that-” but they’re interrupted by the arrival of another, and William turns towards the intrusion with a smile. 

“Papa, check this out!!” William bounces over to John who picks up the picture with a smile, flicking it with the tip of his finger. 

“Hey,” he smiles down at the photo. “Now that’s the baby I remember,” he tells the picture, ruffling William’s head. “Amazing how time flies.” 

“Do you remember what I was like?” William asks, taking the photo back from John, feeling his stomach and chest clench with a swirling conflict of emotion he can’t decipher the origin of. 

“Well, I remember that you-” The clattering clank of the glass in the metal sink cuts John off. 

“I’m gonna go help Scully.” Mulder turns abruptly and heads away from the other two, but not before pausing at the door. “Thanks for helping your mom, kid,” Mulder says, and John looks down at the picture with a deep sigh before handing it back to William. 

“Ask me about this later, okay?” 

\---

“How’s it looking?” Mulder asks tersely as he approaches Skinner standing outside the small crawl space. 

“Good,” he says squinting against the morning sun. “Scully’s almost done.” 

Mulder nods, squatting in front of the small opening. “How goes it, Scully?” he calls out. 

“Fine,” she answers. “Although, I think a family of cats has made a home down here.” Her head peaks out of the crawlspace. “That, or there’s some sort of rat sacrificial altar thing happening.” She pulls herself out with a groan. 

“Did you get it to work?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” she grunts, dusting herself off. “The wires were a little loose. Just needed to twist them back into place.” He nods distantly, biting his bottom lip. “You okay?” she asks. 

“Fucking Doggett,” he mumbles through clenched teeth, his jaw twitching with the force of his molars grinding against each other. 

“Mulder?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he says a little too quickly, and she lifts her eyebrow in challenge. 

“Is this all we have?” Skinner’s voice calls over to them and they turn in his direction. He pours the rest of the gas into the tank and shakes the empty red cannister, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

“Yeah,” Mulder calls back, moving towards him. “Shit, that’s not gonna last long. There were six gallons here.” 

Skinner gestures to the generator. “It was dry. All six are in there.”

“Fan-tastic,” Mulder seethes, running his hand through his hair. 

“What do you mean?” Scully says, looking over worriedly. “How long do we have?” 

Skinner and Mulder look at each other, sharing a knowing glance before Mulder breaks away with a frustrated sigh, turning from the rest of the group.

“We need to pow-wow.” 

\----

 

Mulder thunders through the house, his heavy boots roaring on the hardwood as he leads Skinner and Scully back into the kitchen. Finding John and William at the table, he pulls out a chair. “Let’s all sit. We need to talk.” 

John pats William’s hand, and the teen nods, sliding the picture into his pocket, but not before Scully sees it. Her eyes linger on the space where the picture had been, and she swallows with a duck of her chin, sitting down between Mulder and Wiliam. 

“Should I leave, or...?” William asks, and Scully shrugs noncommittally, tilting her chin towards John for the permission to answer, but Mulder beats him to it. 

“No, you can stay. This concerns everyone.” Mulder pinches his bottom lip pensively, pausing a beat. “Look, I uh--I know that yesterday was complicated with a run into town, but there are things we need to discuss.”

“Like what?” John asks. 

“Supplies. Logistics,” Skinner rattles off, and Mulder nods in agreement.

“Wait, we’re not gonna talk about last night?” William asks, looking between Scully and Mulder, and Scully’s heart drops to her stomach, a discomfort settling low in her gut and rising into her throat. It’s the last thing she wants to talk about in the presence of her son, and yet the only thing she’s been thinking of since she woke up that morning without any memory of the happenings only hours before. 

“It’s not up to me,” Mulder says, turning his eyes to her. “It’s up,” he pauses with a deep breath,” to your mom.” 

She huffs uncomfortably and drops her eyes, twisting the placemat between her fingers. “Mulder, I told you before that I don’t remember anything,” she reminds him, and Mulder nods sympathetically, reaching out and covering her fidgeting hand with his own. 

“I know,” he says softly. 

“Have you been called since Ruskin?” John asks, and Scully pauses for a moment, seriously considering the question. 

“I…” she starts, closing her eyes in concentration, “I don’t think so,” she tells him, wishing she could answer with the surety that the question demands.

“I would have known,” Mulder says. 

“But not--” she starts again, and cuts herself off with a sideways glance to her son. “Nevermind,” she finishes softly, leaning back, unwilling to share the details of her private life with those at the table, unwilling to share with her son that last night was only the second time in a year that she’d spent in his father’s bed -- how no one would have known if she’d been called while she lived alone in that upscale downtown apartment. If only for the fact that she woke up in her bed every morning, she can offer zero assurance, to herself or anyone else, that her mind hasn’t been manipulated in the past. The thought alone makes bile rise in her throat, but she quickly pushes it down, ignoring the pointed glance of her son as he stares at her with concern written across his face. 

“I’m fine,” she whispers to him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and it takes him a second to nod in response, their little exchange unnoticed by the rest of the group.

“So why now?” Skinner asks. “It’s been eighteen years since Ruskin.” 

“Well, I have a theory.” Mulder lets go of her hand and leans forward on the table. “The Trojan Virus,” Mulder starts, pulling the salt shaker from the center of the table and moving it onto his placemat, “decimated the population.” He grabs the pepper shaker and adds it beside the salt. “The supersoldiers we saw yesterday,” he adds, “seem to be taking care of...everyone else.” He places the napkin holder next to the two crystal shakers. “And now we have the calling of past government abductees. It all adds up to something,” he says, pinching his lip as he stares down at his display. 

“What purpose would the government have to call Scully, though?” Skinner asks, leaning forward with curious intent at the display before him.

Individually, the little details scatter across the table like pieces of a puzzle, garbled and out of context of the greater whole. But together, the details as Mulder has laid them out, fit together with smooth edges to reveal the bigger picture: the nefarious intent of their government’s control over its citizens. 

“The virus decimated the individuals deemed unworthy, if what Spender told me holds any truth,” he says, scooting the salt shaker to the side, inadvertently knocking it over in response. Without missing a beat, he pinches the spilled salt and tosses it over his opposite shoulder. “Which leaves the supersoldiers and abductees at the government’s control.” 

“But that still--” Skinner starts, and Mulder holds his hand out, shaking his head. 

“The *new* government’s control,” he clarifies, moving his eyes back to the paraphernalia on the placement. “This is a whole new game, folks,” he finishes softly, shuffling the pieces of his game board around, brows pinched in thought as each pairing equates and blossoms into a different outcome. 

“What are you thinking, Mulder?” Scully asks, and he chuckles, pushing the placemat forward and gesturing to the display palm up. 

“A new world order, he called it. A world where survival of the fittest takes on a whole new meaning,” Mulder says. “The virus. The supersoldiers. They’re eliminating the unworthy, right?” he says, moving the salt and pepper shakers to the side. 

“But what about the abductees?” John asks, eyeing the display. “What’s their purpose in all of this?”

“If other abductees carry similar DNA patterns to Scully, then wouldn’t they be considered worthy by Spender’s standards? It doesn’t make sense,” John offers. 

“They’re gathering them,” Mulder says. “That much is certain.” 

“But Dana didn’t go,” William says, and every head shoots in his direction, as if his presence had been forgotten in his quiet observance. His eyes skirt between John and Mulder. “Will they notice she’s not...wherever she’s supposed to be right now?” 

Mulder drops his head into his hands, muffling his frustrated curse before tenting his hands on the tip of his nose. “He’s right. They’re gonna notice she’s not there.” 

Skinner shakes his head. “But that still doesn’t explain why. For what purpose would this new government need these abductees?” 

“Think about it,” Mulder says. “The abductees are the perfect example of exactly what this new government hopes to have: a human with alien DNA, who is also subject to their control at the government’s will...for whatever the government might need.”

“What do you mean?” William asks, and Mulder leans forward lining up the salt, pepper and napkin holder in a perfectly straight row.

“They’re building their own army.”

Silence rains heavy around the kitchen, each lost in their own thoughts as the seriousness of the situation begins to sink in. An army of drones for an unspecified purpose. Just what would have happened if they hadn’t restrained her the night before? Would she have woken up in some facility, or even worse, not awakened at all; forever enslaved to the will of the government she had once pledged her allegiance to? Each scenario grows darker by the second, but Scully pushes them away, reminded of the sensitivity of her son’s ability, and her own desire to protect him from anymore pain of her own doing. 

“Can we talk about this later, please?” Scully asks, eyeing Mulder with a pointed sideways glance to William, and thankfully Mulder picks up on her clue, looking to William with small reproachful shake of his head. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, but William pushes away from the table and stands with an indignant sigh.

“I have to use the bathroom anyway,” he tells the group, pushing his chair in behind him. “You guys can keep talking without me.” 

“William, it’s not--” she starts, but John stops her with a hand and a shake of his head. 

“He’s fine,” he whispers, before raising his chin toward the back of the retreating teen. “Hey Will! If it’s yellow let it mellow,” he hollers at him lowering into his seat when Will salutes him mid-stride. “Probably best we abide by that until we figure out the power situation with the water pump,” he offers as explanation to the rest of the group.

“Yeah,” Mulder agrees, pausing for a few moments. “How much does he know about supersoldiers?” he asks John. 

“Not much,” John tells him. “I honestly didn’t think he needed to know.” 

“He doesn’t know?” Mulder blanches.

“When the hell was I supposed to bring up supersoldiers, Mulder?” John seethes. “In between staying off Spender’s radar, and living off the grid, I didn’t think supersoldiers factored in highly after I pulled him from that hospital room.” 

“What do you mean ‘staying off Spender’s radar’?” Mulder asks curiously, turning his body slowly towards the man beside him. She can’t stop the racing of her heart at the reminder of how close her son had come to living his life under the thumb of the man responsible for so much pain in their lives, and the growing lump in her throat serves as a reminder that even with the greatest of sacrifice, she was still unable to keep her son safe from the hands of evil. 

“I told you all the other night that I was tipped to Will’s location by the information the Van de Kamps gave me,” he starts.

“Yes,” Scully answers slowly with of a cautious dip of her chin. 

“But what also became to clear to me, that maybe I didn’t explain very well the other night, was that Spender had been involved...to some degree.” 

“No, you explained that the other night. Something about William’s description of a man he had encountered off and on,” Mulder relays. “But, was there further involvement that you haven’t shared?” he asks with growing panic rising in his voice. “Some other piece of information you’re leaving out?” 

Scully studies John’s face, watches him blink as he drops his eyes and stares at the wood grain on the table, clearly consumed by his own thoughts and avoiding the eyes of the people at the table. Finally, after what feels like countless moments on end, he finally shakes his head in the negative.

“No, there’s nothing else,” John answers, and for the first time since he walked into their lives, Scully feels a sinking sensation that he’s not being entirely truthful about his past with William.

“So, he never tried to come after William?” Scully asks curiously. 

“I can’t tell you he hasn’t *tried* to come after William, but I can tell you that I never saw any attempt,” he explains, turning to face Scully with softened eyes. “I would have told you if he had. We uh, we stayed pretty far off the grid,” he adds with a contemplative scratch of his cheek. “It wouldn’t have been easy to find us most of the time.”

“Or easy to get past the Dwizinsky brothers,” William adds as he comes back into the kitchen. 

“Who were they?” Scully asks.

“Uhm, some boys...men, I guess, who we lived with,” William says. “Big guys.”

John leans back in his seat with a proud cross of his arms. “Still kicked their ass in that ten mile run, though.”

William huffs as his cheeks tinge pink. “It wasn’t that big of a deal, Papa.” 

“You like to run?” Mulder asks with a hint of surprise, and William smiles, and rolls the placemat with an ambivalent shrug, a shy copy of his mother’s fidgeting. 

“It’s okay, I guess,” he answers and John laughs, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. 

“Oh please. You love it,” he tells William. “Averaged just under a five-minute mile for most of the race,” he smiles proudly, and even Skinner lifts his eyebrows in amazement. 

“You and Mulder should go running sometime,” Scully offers, lifting her eyes to William.

“Wait. You like to run, too?” William asks brightly, smiling across at Mulder with the first genuine smile she’s seen on his face in the short days that she’s known her son. Her chest burns at the sight of it. She etches it into her memory; something to hold on to, she tells herself, unwilling to admit their lives will ever be free from danger or separation. 

“I do,” Mulder nods slowly. 

“You wanna go later?” William asks, and Scully covers her smile with the palm of her hand, resting her elbow on the table. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Mulder says, hem-hawing with a jerk of his head. “There’s some stuff we need to do around here first.” 

William nods in understanding. “Yeah. Sure.”

Skinner clears his throat. “Yeah, we’re gonna need another run for gas for the generator. We have enough to last us a few days, max.”

“How much electricity could we possibly need?” Scully asks. “There’s the refrigerator, lights… We can live without television and computers, not that either has service at this point.”

“Scully.” Mulder lays a hand on her arm with a smirk. “When I say that we have a few days, I’m taking into consideration that we are using bare bone electricity usage. The water pump and fridge will draw the most usage.”

“We should probably go through the fridge and consume the perishable food first,” John offers.

“In light of last night,” Skinner starts, leaning forward on his forearms. “I think we need to talk seriously about weapons and security. We’ve got six clips between the four of us, but that’s not counting any ammunition you might have stored around here. How much do you have?” Skinner asks Mulder, and she catches Mulder’s sideways glance before she averts her eyes.

“I don’t have much ammo,” Mulder says, “I used to have more.” 

At the time, it was the only choice she thought she had, resolved to removing any way he could harm himself as she watched the darkness swallow him alive. He hadn’t moved from his office chair, hadn’t spoken a word to her in three days. She wasn’t even sure he knew she’d left. Only when he’d finally turned to her with eyes devoid of life and passion did she finally see what the years had done to him. No hospitals, Scully, he’d said to her. I’ll be fine, he assured. Go live your life, he told her. She threw two dozen boxes of ammunition into the pond for her own piece of mind, telling herself that only bullets could kill a man, that her driving off that property hadn’t done the deed, when she walked out of his life and left him to face his demons alone. 

“But, I have an extra clip for my Sig, now,” Mulder continues with a clearing of his throat. “Maybe two.” 

“What about food?” John asks. “How much we got between us? There are five of us here, and we’re gonna go through some serious food storage.”

Mulder turns to Scully. “Did you ever get an inventory of the food while we were out?” 

She shakes her head, humming in the negative. “Unh-uh. I uh-- I spent the day cleaning while you guys were gone. Didn’t get a chance to make it out there.”

“That’s fine. We’ll spend the day going through it.”

Skinner clears his throat. “I’ll deal with the firearms. Probably have to clean them too, right?” He lifts an eyebrow in Mulder’s direction. 

“What should I do?” William asks.

“You can help Mr. Skinner,” John replies with a jut of his chin. “I’m gonna get on the roof and hook up a rain collection unit. Rain water is perfect for household stuff, and with the summer storms that blow through we should have plenty.”

“That’s nice of you,” Scully tells him, “Mulder should help you,” she offers, and John eyes Mulder for a brief moment before declining politely. 

“Kind of you to offer, but I think I’d rather work on it alone, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“Alright, kid,” Skinner says, standing from the table.” You’re gonna clean some guns with me. Then maybe I’ll take you out back and let you hit some cans or something.” 

William smiles. “Awesome!” 

“The fence by the pond is perfect for target practice,” Mulder tells him with a wink in his direction. “There may or may not be a few markers already up. Hypothetically, of course.” He stands from his place and moves towards the pantry. 

“Will you… Are you going to come with us-- for target practice that is...if you have time?” William asks, and Scully feels her heart clench at the awkward look of hopeful expectation on his face. 

Mulder is oblivious, shaking his head as he moves to the pantry and rifles through the small cabinet, twisting cans in his hands to look for expiration dates. “No, you guys go ahead,” he says, absentminded. “I’m gonna stay back and help Scully inventory the food in the shed.” Scully winces at the harsh onslaught of his rejection, feeling her eyes burn as she watches her son’s face fall with disappointment. 

“Oh...uh...okay. See ya,” he says quietly, adding a shy wave as he follows Skinner out of the kitchen and into the living room. 

Scully shakes her head in disgust. “Dammit, Mulder,” she whispers.

\---

Dust falls from the ceiling as the doors to the shelter are opened, the hot stale air blasting the skin of their faces as they squint to see inside the dark recesses of the bunker. 

“Let me get a light.” Mulder palms the side of the unit until he finds what he’s looking for, pulling the tiny string until the light glowed in the small space. 

“There’s electricity down here?” Scully asks, peering cautiously into the darkness before stepping back and lingering against the door. 

“Uh…” Mulder trails off with a chuckle. “No. Not quite. ‘Insta Bulb’,” he says with a sheepish smirk. “$14.99 for four.”

“Of course,” she sighs, walking into the confined space. 

He wipes the dust from the battery-operated bulb. “I had a lot of time on my hands,” he says quietly, and she nods to herself. 

When he’d found the dilapidated old bunker, it was nothing more than an empty hole. Reinforced with metal and wood, cobwebs hung from every corner, half a dozen rodent carcusses littered the dirty floor. Bags of rancid flour and oat mills sat perched against the walls. To Scully, it had looked like a death trap. To Mulder it had looked like salvation. 

 

“Jesus, Mulder.” She breathes in amazement at the hollowed out chamber. 

He grabs the clipboard off the wall and flips back the front page, sliding out the pencil from the clip and placing it behind his ear. “Looks a little different from the last time you saw it, doesn’t it?” 

“I’ll say,” she says, running her hand along the formica counter that runs along the right side of the bunker. She bends and opens the cabinets, squatting to peer inside. “Toilet paper…first aid kits...iodine,” she shakes her head. “Mulder, you really put a lot of work into this.” 

He smiles and holds his hand out, helping her stand. “Let me show you around.” 

“Around? There’s more than just this room?” 

He chuckles. “Well, no, but I can give you a tour of the place right?” He stops two steps ahead, holding out his arms proudly. “This is the place.” 

She throws a lopsided smile at him, shaking her head with a bemused grin. “You got a couch down here, I see,” she says, and she sits on it, running her hands along the worn leather. 

“Yeah, uh--,” he says, scratching his forehead, coming to sit beside her, placing the clipboard on his lap. “They said you should have the comforts of home down here.”

“Who said that?”

“Oh you know…,” he says coyly, brushing nonexistent dust from the arm, “I have my sources.”

Scully blinks twice. “You watched a ‘Doomsday Preppers’ marathon, didn’t you?” 

He concedes with a tilt of his head, smiling into his lap. “It adds something...nice down here, though.” He smoothes his hand along the arm. “It’ll certainly get more use down here.” 

She looks closely at the material. There was something oddly familiar about the soft leather. “Is this…” she trails off with a curious point of her finger. “Is this your couch -- the one from your office?” 

He pats the back of it, and shakes his head. “No, that one’s still there.” 

“Oh, because it looks so much like--”

“It’s the one from my apartment.” 

Their eyes meet, and her jaw drops as she takes it in, finally recognizing the same dark leather from a lifetime ago. Her heart skips a beat at the sight of him sitting against it, and he wiggles in his seat, squeaking the battered material. “I think my ass still fits in this spot.” 

She blinks in amazement. “Mulder, how did you--” 

“It’s not like I had to go searching for it, Scully,” he smiles at her. “I just rented a truck and drove up to the storage place.” 

“But why?”

“I thought it was perfect, really. Saved me a few hundred dollars in buying a new couch, and...well…” he trails off with a smile and loving caress of the leather, “it definitely brings the comforts of home doesn’t it?” 

“It brings back a lot of things,” she says softly with a cross of her arms, hoping beyond hope he doesn’t see the rise of color in her cheeks. A silence stills the air around them, but she still feels her skin prickle when she hears the softest of whispers leave his mouth, a ghost of a memory that floats between them. 

“It was the last time before…,” he sighs longingly, scooting off the couch. “Anyway, let’s start the inventory.” He lets his hand slide against her back, and her skin burns in the wake of his fingers, and the memory of their bodies moving together in sweaty bliss. 

It was the last time they’d made love before he was taken, before everything had changed between them. Perennial threats of budget cuts and the closure of their office hung heavily between them, but they’d pushed it all away, instead finding solitude and avoidance one night in a bottle of tequila and sex. It was dirty, primal. She’d tasted tequila on his tongue as she poured it from her mouth into his, and her clit had tingled with the heat of alcohol as he strummed his mouth across it, blowing hot and cool air against her swollen flesh before making her back arch off the dark leather. His breath was sweet, and his lips glistened with the remnants of their affair with Patron, their dripping bodies melting into the unforgiving material as she rose and fell above him, driving him into her as their lips nipped and sucked. His eyes had glazed with unbridled desire when he finally slipped over the precipice, ignorant to what their future held -- what would be taken from them. 

At the time, she’d thought the closure of their office was the worst thing that could happen to them. If she only knew… It had been so easy then.

\----

Skinner can’t help but watch the kid as he inspects the chamber of the handgun, meticulously eyeing and cleaning every orifice of the weapon. Softer features like his mother, he notes, but has the eye for detail that reminds him of his father; the same relentless critical eye that made him both a legend at the FBI... and an outcast. 

“You’re a pro,” Skinner tells him, smiling softly when he catches the younger man’s eye and watches his cheeks grow pink. 

“Thanks,” William chuckles uncomfortably. “I think I missed a spot on that rifle though.”

Skinner turns his head with a chuff. “Kid, they can do surgery on it and it would be sterile,” he says, patting the teen’s leg. “You did excellently. Better than new recruits.” He smiles again at William, and the teen meets his eyes, accepting his compliment. “Maybe you’ve got a career in the FBI.” 

“Certainly runs in the family,” William says under his breath, blowing into the chamber to clear the fuzz from his cloth. 

Skinner lets the silence hang between them, thinking of the years he knew his parents...all three of them. How young they once were, how green, how much potential they each had. Sixteen years later, he still carries the guilt for losing Mulder in that forest, for robbing him the years he could have spent with his son; all the things he missed...

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches William staring at him. “Sorry, what did you say? I missed it.” 

William shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything. Just....noticed you were lost in thought, is all,” and he returns to his work, lost in the meticulous detail of the task.

“So uhm…” he begins cautiously. “How did you intercept your mother’s...connection last night?” He picks up another weapon, and begins to disassemble it. 

William shakes his head with a genuine look of confusion, keeping his eyes fixed to the project in front of him. “I’m not sure, really,” he says, and Skinner accepts his answer with mutual silence, allowing his words to wash over him. For a few seconds the only thing they hear is the clicking of metal on metal. 

“You don’t seem surprised by what happened,” William finally says, glancing sideways at the older man. 

“I’ve stopped questioning absurdity when it relates to your parents.” 

William pauses, sticking the cotton swab into the chamber, twisting it expertly. “Do you think it’s absurd, what I did?” 

Skinner sighs and lifts his head. “You’re putting words in my mouth, and no, I don’t think it’s absurd.” He squints his eyes to look through the barrel. “I think...that what you did was incredibly brave.” 

William huffs. “I don’t even know what I did.” The barrel of the revolver whizzes with precision. 

Skinner eyes him over his glasses, pausing his movements. “I think you do. And I don’t think it was the first time, either.” 

William’s hands cease their movements, a nervous swallow heard from feet away. “What do you mean?”

Skinner continues his movements with the weapon, feigning ignorance towards his shift in attitude. “You told your father the nosebleed had happened before -- that it wasn’t a big deal. There was blood on your shirt when I met you at the hospital,” Skinner says calmly, inspecting the metal piece in his hand. “You get them a lot?”

“It’s the weather,” William tells him, and Skinner lifts his eyes with a skeptical huff. 

“Son, you’re not gonna get in trouble,” he tells him. 

William sighs. “I don’t know how I did it, okay? I just...I saw her there and she was...it looked like she was in pain.” 

Skinner lifts his head. “I was asking about the nosebleeds.”

“I didn’t know I could stop it,” he speaks quietly. 

“You did something more than stop it, William,” Skinner tells him, twisting the cotton swab into the barrel of his gun. “You *intercepted* it.” 

“Yeah, so?” William scowls. “I still don’t know how I did it.” 

“You want to know what I think?” Skinner asks, wiping the surface of the weapon. 

William nods. His youthful curiosity would be innocent if not for the fact that the very nature of his existence was anything but innocent, and it breaks Skinner’s heart to see just how little the young man knows about his own life. 

“I think that you and your mother share a special connection,” he starts, “one that isn’t entirely clear, but nonetheless exists.” William nods with a faraway expression, and finally Skinner exhales with a long sigh, removing his glasses with a pinch of his brow. 

“Listen,” he tells William, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees. “You’ve always been special, and I’m not sure how much you know about the abilities you had as an infant, or even if those abilities still exist today,” he says eyeing him pointedly, “but something happened the night we met. And something happened last night with your mother. Both of those caused a reaction in your body.”

“And?” William prompts.

“And...the investigator in me wants to know how the two are linked.” He picks up another weapon. “That’s all I’m saying.”

William looks forward, staring at the screen door. Moments pass. They tick by with the sounds of the grandfather clock echoing behind them. 

“I can feel them,” he finally offers, and Skinner’s hands falter for only a moment before resuming his work, fearful that any sudden movements might stop his train of thought. 

“I felt that ship on the bridge. I--” He shakes his head with a wince. “I can’t explain it. But I can feel it...almost,” he swallows thickly, “hear it,” he recounts, his eyes still trained towards the door. “I felt it last night, too,” he adds at length. 

Skinner can only nod as his innermost worries become fact, straight out of William’s mouth. Sometimes he hates being right in own mind. “You had a headache before you went to bed,” Skinner reminds him, and William nods.

“Yeah, it gives me headaches. Causes the uh…” he taps on his nose, before dropping his face into his lap and picking at his nails. Finally, he lifts his face and turns to Skinner with unshed tears, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you think they were trying to take me, too?”

He does the only thing he can do. He tells him the truth. “I don’t know.” 

\---

2011

“The progress so far is unacceptable,” Spender said, inhaling deeply through the hole in his throat. 

The round man in front of him cleared his throat, swallowing thickly with nervous glances around the table. “Sir, the lead we had on him was bogus.” 

“What do you mean bogus, Mr. Reed?” Spender exhaled the smoke in a long plume. “We were told he’d been spotted with that group. How difficult could it possibly be?” he asked calmly, though edged with a level of frustration that Monica had grown all-too familiar with. People around the table fidgeted nervously, avoiding his eyes as if fearful to become his newest victim. 

“Sir, the project is proceeding on schedule, even without him,” the woman seated at the far end of the table declared. A new woman, a scientist Monica had never met pushed a notebook across the glossy surface of the wooden table. “We have exactly fourteen months, two weeks, and six days until the final date. We were able to extract enough of the subject’s--”

“His name is William,” Monica interrupted, but the woman continued speaking, ignoring Monica’s protest. 

“--DNA from his time with Doctor Goldman at Nugenics.” 

“We were?” Spender asked, intrigued by the latest developments. He lifted the binder and opened the cover, scanning the pages. “We were told that you weren’t sure you had enough.” 

“We have enough,” she said with a proud rise of her chin. “The project is on track for a full vaccine for roughly two hundred individuals.” 

“Selected by me, of course,” Spender leered. 

“Naturally,” 

“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a devilish grin, “this is certainly good news, ladies and gentleman.” He paused, allowing everyone to share relieved glances as he inhaled another drag into his blackened lungs. “But be warned: my grandson will be found and brought back to me before the final date. When the aliens come to colonize, he needs to be with his family,” he said softly, rising from the table. 

“What about his parents, sir?” Monica asked, rising to stand with the rest of the table. Spender turned over his shoulder and exhaled slowly, the translucent nature of his scarring glittery in the artificial lighting. 

“His parents gave him away.” 

\---

2016

Mulder hears her shuffling the tin cans of vegetables and fruit, checking and double checking the sparse inventory sheet he’d already prepared months prior. 

“How much of this stuff do you want to take into the house?” she asks, flipping over the sheet and squatting to check another row. 

“Uh, I don’t know,” he grunts, lifting a case of water and placing it on the steps. With a ragged breath, he wipes the sweat from his forehead in the growing swelter of the underground space. “Think Will would like some of those chicken noodle soups?” he offers, pointing to the red and white cans stacked behind the macaroni. 

Scully’s hand lingers on a red and white can, and he watches her closely as the arch of her eyebrow grows with each swirling thought which only makes him second-guess his earlier statement the longer she stands there staring at the cans. “I don’t even know if he likes it,” Mulder backtracks, “but I just remember my mom making it for Sam and me.”

She nods, grabbing two cans and placing them on the counter beside her. “No, it’s perfect,” she whispers, her voice suddenly heavy with emotion. “I’m sure he’ll like it.”

He shifts his weight. “You okay?” he asks, and she nods with her back turned, resuming her earlier task and ticking off a box, followed by another. 

“You only have four boxes of powdered milk, Mulder. It says five,” she says to the white paper on the clipboard. “I’ll change it.” She erases his markings, correcting the mistake with meticulous precision. 

“Scully?” 

She sniffs with a sad smile. “I’m fine, Mulder,” she tries to tell him, and he scoffs, surprised at her audacity to tell him that after all of these years, her attempts to quell his concern for her with a sentence that has become more automatic than actual fact. 

He’s left staring at her back, little more to do than rely on the instinct he’s built in interpreting the minute shifts in her body language. He’d once prided himself on his ability to read her without words, to know her better than she was ever willing to tell him. But he wonders now if he’s lost the capacity he honed with such painstaking precision, reliant now on the breadcrumbs of emotion she tosses his way. 

“You thinking about William?” he prompts, and she finally turns to him with stern set of her jaw, her eyes a surprising crystal blue, free of the emotion he expected to find. 

“Can I ask you something, Mulder?” she asks, and he nods, unsure of where she’ll take the conversation, and unwilling to acknowledge the sinking sensation in his gut at the serious tone of her voice.  
“Why are you ignoring him?” she asks.

“You think I’m ignoring him?” He is taken aback by her implications as she stands her ground in front of him, lifting a single brow in contest. “Care to share what makes you think that?” 

“Mulder,” she starts, crossing her arms. “He wanted to spend time with you.”

“When?” he retorts, replaying the morning’s events and coming up empty of a suitable answer. “I told him we might go for a run later. Did I miss something?” he asks with a shake of his head. 

Biting her lip, she nods slowly, looking to the ceiling as tears brim her eyelids, clearly annoyed at his lack of insight. “Yes, Mulder, you did,” she tells him with a voice choked and thick with emotion, looking at him in such a way that cuts straight through his chest. “He wanted to spend time with you, today,” she continues, “and you just...brushed him off,” she squeaks a whisper, allowing a single tear to fall from her eyes. “He was heartbroken, Mulder.”

“Scully, how--,” he sighs with a clench of his jaw. “How the hell was I supposed to know that? We went-- we’ve been busy,” he explains. 

“Exactly,” she nods. “But you’re ignoring what’s right in front of you,” she implores, her chin dimpling with each stricken tremble of her lip. “Like you always do.” She turns away from him with a disgusted shake of her head, picking up the clipboard and resuming the ticking off of boxes, leaving him standing there in the whirlwind of her words. 

“Is--” he stops with a clear of his throat. “Is that really what you think of me, Scully?”   
She tosses a few cans of soup onto the couch and marks the remaining inventory on the paper with a huff drenched in resentment. “It’s all I know, Mulder. I’ve grown used to it over the years. But William hasn’t, and I--”

“Didn’t stop you from walking out of that door though, did it?” 

“If we are ever to move forward again, you’re going to *have* to forgive me,” she says, eyeing him dangerously as she brushes past him towards the larger cabinets. 

“And you’re gonna have to forgive *me* for the fact that I’ve only known my son for two days, Scully. That’s it. Just two days,” he clips back, coming up beside her and leaning down to speak at her level. “I’m making it up as I go along here, Scully!” he yells in growing frustration. “I’m just trying to keep us alive!” he slams his palm in the counter and winces at the shooting pain that radiates up his arm and prickles in his chest with a burning ache. 

“Mulder, I know that this is new for you. I know that you’ve never done this before--”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Even as the final word leaves his mouth he wishes he could put them safely back inside, push them deep into the recesses of the place where he stores the inhumane and awful words he might have felt in the darkest of moments, but would never dare utter aloud. 

The look on her face is enough to remind him of the impossibility of them -- that no matter how much they might love each other, there are some things from which two people can never recover. Just what the hell had happened to them? 

\----

2005

“You nervous?” Mulder asked, meeting her eyes in the bathroom mirror. 

Scully shuddered a sigh, applying the final touches of her mascara with trembling hands. “Can’t you tell?” She braced her hands on the sink, taking in her appearance. 

“You’re gonna be great,” he told her, pressing his face into her neck and planting a soft kiss against her long amber hair. 

Their eyes met in the reflection, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her, swaying to a music only he could hear. For moments they went on like that, simply staring at each other in the mirror as their bodies moved back and forth in a comforting embrace.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she asked, and she watched as his lips curled into a soft smile. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

She shrugged her shoulders, tilting her head to the side as he pressed a kiss to the soft skin of her neck. “It’s been awhile since you’ve been alone all day,” she explained. “I just worry is all.” 

“Scully…” He pulled away with a sigh, turning her around. “I’m gonna be--” he started, but then stopped short, cupping her cheeks and tilting her chin up to him. “Wait,” he said, furrowing his brows and lifting his finger to her cheek. “You’ve got a little…” he swiped his finger against her cheek and showed her the evidence of his discovery. He smiled at her. “Make a wish, Scully.” 

She stared down at the eyelash on his finger with a roll of her eyes. “It’s an old wive’s tale, Mulder.”

“Actually,” he countered, “It’s a superstition.” 

“Tom-ay-toe, tom-ah-toe,” she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He closed his eyes and blew against his finger, making the wish that she refused to make. She didn’t ask what he wished for. He didn’t offer. 

He cupped her face again, and brought his lips down to hers in a soft kiss, barely brushing against her bottom lip in fear of messing her newly applied lipstick. “I’m gonna be fine, Scully, and that hospital would be stupid not to hire you,” he said against her mouth, and she nodded gently, gripping his shirt in her fist and nuzzling her nose against his. 

His breath quickened. “What time is your interview?” he whispered playfully against her mouth, gripping her waist with hungry fingers. She nipped at his bottom lip, humming approvingly. 

“One.” She rolled her hips into the erection she felt growing against her belly, her lips curling into a feral grin. Opening her eyes, she watched the conflict cross his face as he considered their time predicament, and gasped when he pressed his stubbly face into her neck. “I have to leave in about twenty minutes,” she giggled, pushing against his shoulders. 

“It’s been a week, Scully. I don’t think I’ll need twenty minutes,” he told her, nipping at the spot below her ear that made her knees buckle. “But thanks for your vote of confidence.” 

Her laugh was cut short when she felt her skirt being hiked around her waist and her bare ass dropped on the cold bathroom sink. 

Turned out, she hadn’t needed twenty minutes, either. 

\--

She looked over at the ominous brick structure of the hospital with a shaky breath. “Here we go,” she said to herself, willing the pounding in her chest to still her shaky nerves. 

Her heels clicked against the concrete of the parking lot, scuffing and shuffling as she moved closer to the front doors, but a crunch of plastic under her foot stopped her. he looked down and picked up the offending item with a frown. Catching sight of her watch, she cursed under her breath and picked up her steps, moving quickly into the building with the item in hand. 

She approached the front desk and smiled politely at the attendant. “Dr. Dana Scully for Father Ibarra,” she told the woman behind the counter. “I have an appointment at one.” 

The attendant smiled in return, picking up the phone and dialing a series of numbers. 

“Oh!” Scully said with a distracted smile. “I found this Batman in the parking lot.” She held the toy up, righting it’s limbs and cape before handing it over to the attendant. “I’m sure some little boy is missing it,” she added softly.

The woman smiled with a nod of her head and discarded the toy into a box under her desk with little emotion. “I’ll add to the lost and found,” she told Scully. “Father Ibarra will be right down.” 

“Thank you.” 

\----

2016

Skinner squints into the midday sun, pushing his sunglasses up his nose as the screen door shuts behind him. William adjusts the rifle strap across his chest, and pulls his baseball hat securely on his head, following Skinner’s lead outside. 

“Any idea where John went?” Skinner asks, and William lifts his chin towards the sky, squinting in the bright sun. 

“I think he’s on the roof.” 

Skinner walks out into the yard, pacing halfway across the grass before turning around and cupping his hands around his mouth. “John!” he calls out. 

John lifts his arm and waves back to the two of them from the roof of the house. He gestures to the ladder that sits against the siding, and they both watch as he inches his way down, carefully placing each foot on each rung before he jumps the final step to the grassy earth. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

Skinner gestures his thumb towards William. “We’re thinking about hitting up that target spot down by the pond. You wanna come?” 

“Oh…” John looks to William, instinctively pulling the hat bill down to cover his fair skin. “I wish I could. I still need to get this rain collection tubing to fit properly before it starts to rain.” 

Skinner cranes his neck to the crystal blue sky. “Looks pretty clear to me.” 

John chuckles with a forgiving nod of his head. “Yeah, but there’s some dark clouds out in the distance. Wind might blow ‘em this way.” 

Skinner looks out into the horizon with a thoughtful nod. “Well, do you need extra help? We don’t have to go out to the pond.” William’s face darts to Skinner’s with a disappointed drop in his shoulders, but John smirks at the boy, clapping his back. 

“Nah, you guys go have fun. I’ll be done here in a little bit, plus Dana and Mulder should be back to the house soon.” William lifts his face and smiles at the older man. 

“Thanks, Papa.” 

John brushes them off and moves back towards the ladder, “You guys go have fun. Oh, and Will,” he stops and turns back around, “I saw some wild turkeys roaming around earlier.” He winks at the teen with a broad grin, waving one final time before his ascent back up to the roof. 

“Did he just--?” 

William nods, and turns to his older companion. “Ever go hunting?” 

The fields are overgrown and full of dry underbrush that crunches under their feet as they walk. The small pond sits off in the distance, the glittering reflection of the water a beacon for the location of their target practice, a solace to the heat that pounds down their necks in the humid Virginia sun. 

“So where did you learn so much about guns?” Skinner asks, breaking the silence between them. 

William grips his rifle strap, lifting his long legs over a fallen tree stump. “We uh… I don’t know,” he trails off with an uncomfortable chuckle, “I guess I just...grew up around them. They were always around,” he adds after a beat. 

Skinner nods with a thoughtful pause, wiping his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Where’d you live?” he asks, and William barks out a laugh, looking over at Skinner with a wide smile. 

“The list would be shorter if I told you where we didn’t live.” 

“Okay,” Skinner starts again, stepping around a large tumbleweed, “Then just tell me about your life. Anything you want.” He can’t tell the kid that his curiosity is drilling a hole into his pocket. It’s been festering ever since he laid eyes on him in that hospital hallway.

“We moved around a lot,” William tells him, keeping his eyes trained on his dusty shoes. “The people we were with...they moved around a lot. Lived off the land,” he says carefully as if saying the words for the very first time. “Nomads, I guess.” 

Skinner ducks his head to peer at the young man. “You never had a home?” 

“Sometimes we did,” he says, bending down to pick up a large piece of wood, using it as a walking stick. 

“Sometimes?” 

“Papa never wanted to stay in one place for too long,” he answers quietly, picking up his pace to move ahead, an unspoken request for distance. 

Skinner watches William skim a rock across the surface of the pond as he approaches him from behind, untying his handkerchief and dipping it in the cool water before tying it around his neck with a sigh of relief. William flicks his wrist and sends another small pebble skittering over the top of the water. 

“Damn. Seven bounces,” Skinner says with a low whistle. “That’s pretty good.” He sees the teen’s lips curl into a smile before he bends and picks up another.

“I’ve only ever gotten to nine.” 

Kicking off his shoes, Skinner wades into the water up to his ankles. “I think my highest was four, so you’ve got me beat, kid.” He reaches down and pushes through the water until he finds a suitable stone, turning it around in his hand and closing his fist around the smooth surface. 

He turns to the side and pulls his arm back, flicking it forward with just the right amount of speed. The stone skips across the water once...twice… *clunk*. William hides his mirth behind a hand, pulling the bill of his hat down to cover his face. 

“Yeah, ha ha. Laugh at the old man,” Skinner jests, pushing William’s shoulder, but William’s laughter trickles down to nothing, and he stares at the water lapping gently around his legs. 

“What were they really like?” William asks suddenly, and Skinner’s smile falters.

“Your parents?”

“Yeah, I mean… Papa’s told me stuff,” he flicks a stone across the water. One...two...three...four...five…*clunk* “But you knew them, too,” he says. “All of them,” he adds after a beat. 

Skinner contemplates his answer, listening to the sound of the water against the surrounding reeds. The kid was right though; he had known all of his parents once upon a time. They’d become their own band of brothers, experiencing things that only those in their platoon would understand. “What in particular do you want to know?” 

With the teen’s silence, Skinner can tell he’s holding back, pushing down his desire to ask a difficult question he doesn’t know the answer to. “I meant what I said before, Will,” he reminds him, picking up another stone. “You’re not going to get into trouble for asking, so,” he flicks his wrist and tosses the stone, “just ask it.” One...two...three...four…*clunk* 

He kicks the water with his foot. “They aren’t together anymore, are they?”

Skinner sighs. “I think the relationship between your parents is very complicated.” 

William swallows thickly, squinting into the glittery water that dances around him. “It’s complicated because of me.” 

“What?”

“It’s true. I can feel it,” he tells him. “Can’t you?” he says, looking over his shoulder, willing Skinner to prove him wrong. But he can’t. He simply nods in agreement. 

The sadness has been palpable throughout the house. The life his parents used to share together has been reduced to mere remnants of whatever photos of their former lives peek from behind the newspaper clippings that now cover them.. “Your parents have always been private about their lives,” he tells him, picking up a reed and twisting it between his fingers. “Don’t mistake their silence for a lack of affection.” 

“But they don’t live together,” William counters, and Skinner sighs, sitting on the grass. 

“I don’t think that’s your fault.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, tossing a stone with a kerplunk in the far end of the pond. “I guess, I just pictured them differently.”

Skinner pauses the conversation, watching the shadows dance across William’s face as he squints out at the water, lost in his own thoughts. “Are you alright?” Skinner asks, and William chuckles sadly. 

“I think you’re the only person to ask me that since we got here.” He stares between his legs at the thin grass under him. “Except for Papa, that is.” 

Skinner nods in recognition. “I don’t think they haven’t asked you on purpose, kid. They’re terrified,” he tells him. “This whole thing is terrifying.”

“But we survived the virus. We’re still here.” 

“Yes,” Skinner agrees, “We did survive. But we don’t know what the future holds. And unfortunately…” he stops short, looking away from William with a thick swallow. “The one thing I know about your parents is that they have had the rug pulled out from under them so often that it’s hard for them to trust when the rug is gonna stay in place,” Skinner explains, and William crosses his arms, grimacing as he turns away.

“But,” Skinner continues, “it doesn’t mean that they don’t love you. I saw your mother with you as a baby. I also saw what losing you did to her.” William meets his eyes. “If *I* were them,” Skinner implores softly, “I’d be terrified of losing you again. Try to give them a little time.” 

Water laps at their feet, seconds passing as the silence hangs around them. A bird calls out in the distance, setting flight with her dark wings into the blue sky as the wind rustles the trees around them. 

“I will,” William whispers. 

 

\----

John stands and stares at the sky, watching the dark clouds inch closer, covering the sun and casting shadows across the rolling hills. He frowns and with a frustrated groan he returns to his work, pounding the hammer into the small nails that will secure the tubing to the roof’s edge. 

He’d watched his former boss and William head off towards the pond, losing them about five-hundred yards out when the shrubbery and trees swallowed their figures in the thick overgrowth. He’d smiled a while later at the first echo of a gunshot, imagining William’s lopsided grin as he lowers the rifle, admiring his sharp aim. 

“Well you certainly have a selective memory,” he hears Dana say in the distance, and he can’t help but turn, watching her exit the hidden bunker and follow Mulder back towards the house. But Mulder turns around, dropping the cases of water to the green grass and standing with his hands on his hips. John finds himself observing the interaction closely, watching the way Mulder steps in and closes the distance between them; how she lifts her chin to speak to him as he glares down at her. 

“Bullshit…” he think he hears from Mulder’s mouth. Mulder points towards the house and leans down further, but she shakes her head and steps away from him, holding up her hands with an irritated cross of her arms. He can’t hear everything as the words carry in muffled song through the wind, and even as he knows he should ignore the couple and return to his work, he’s drawn to their quarrel like the twisted metal and flashing lights of an accident on the highway, unable to look away. 

Dana stands with her arms crossed over her chest, as Mulder gesticulates his arms wide, stepping into her space to articulate his point. And that’s when he hears it, the name that makes his ears fine-tune the conversation like a staticky radio without an antenna. 

“And where the fuck does that leave me in William’s life?” Mulder yells. 

“He’s raised him, Mulder!” she retorts. “You can’t ignore that fact! For better or for worse, John *is* a father to him!” 

He watches Mulder stagger in response, stepping back three steps before turning away from her completely, picking up his discarded pile and heading towards the house with a furious stomp. Even the clench of his jaw is visible from the roof top. But, Dana remains in the field with her hands on her hips, watching him walk away from her with a regretful shake of her head, swiping furiously at the thick tears that slip down her cheek. 

With a twisting sense of guilt building deeply inside of him, John returns to hammering the aging shingles, repenting for his voyeuristic sins with each pound of metal against metal.

\----

Skinner eyes the bird with a grimace. “I’ll hand it to you, son, I wouldn’t have known how to do any of that,” and he lifts the twenty pound turkey up, smiling down at the teen. 

“You distracted him with that...whatever it was you did.” 

“It was a mating call,” Skinner says.

“Mating call?” William grimaces. “No,” he shakes his head, “No, sir, that wasn’t a mating call. You gobbled.” William smiles up at him, feeling his chest hitch with laughter. “You literally said ‘gobble gobble,’ Mr. Skinner.” 

But Skinner doesn’t share his smile, and insteads lifts his face to the sky with a curious tilt. “You smell that?” he asks, and William nods his head. 

“Yeah, smells like a fire.” 

Skinner turns around, looking at the horizon. “Weird. I wonder where it’s at. I don’t see anything.” 

“How long will it take to cook?” William asks, and Skinner peers down at the large animal. 

“Probably five or six hours for the whole thing,” he says with a wince. “But we can separate it, probably,” he ponders aloud. “Maybe just cook the breast or something. I don’t really know.” He tromps up the stairs to the old farmhouse, holding the dead bird by its legs. 

“Can you get the door for me?” Skinner asks, hiking it into his arms, but William doesn’t hear him, frozen in place from the fog of emotions that drift from the house. 

“William?” Skinner repeats, “The door?” 

“Wha--oh,” William says softly with a distracted shake of his head, and steps up to the door. Opening the screen, he holds to the side and allows the older man to walk in ahead of him carrying what would become their dinner. 

Sadness, guilt, and regret overwhelm his senses in a crushing weight of depressing heaviness. Something had happened while he was gone because the house had never felt like this before. Not *this* strong. He rubs his stomach in an attempt to curtail the dull ache, looking around the room for the sources of such torment. 

He finds the living room empty, quiet; but the presence of people still remain. An energy that still circulates around -- ghosts of feelings revolving around him in a maddening pace. 

He hears her shoes before he sees her, and he lifts his face expectantly towards the sound, bracing himself for the wall he knows remains strong and sturdy around her. Deep breath in, he tells himself. Deep breath out. Focus. 

She stops short in sight of him. “William,” she says with a soft shock to her voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She clears her throat, and pushes her hair behind her ears. “Did you have fun?” The smile she gives him doesn’t reach her eyes, forced and unnatural against her splotchy face. 

“We uh-- we caught a wild turkey,” he croaks, clearing his throat with another pass of his hand across his stomach. 

“Yeah, I know,” she says, trying her best to keep the smile on her face. She needlessly adjusts the papers on the coffee table, wearing her skillful facade as if the mere presence of her doesn’t clue him into her actual state of mind. 

“I heard Walter walk out back,” she tells him. “He and your uh...They were trying to figure out the best way to go about butchering the bird,” she finishes softly, averting her eyes.

They stand together in silence, but William casts a glance towards the closed door at the far end of the living room, a sort of black cloud of negative energy oozing from under the seal. Curiosity tells him to knock and find the source of such misery and heartbreak, but Papa’s voice calls out to him.

“Will! Come help us out, son!” 

With one final cast towards the office door, he meets his mother’s gaze watching a rainbow of emotions dance through her blue eyes. He leans his head towards the kitchen, unwilling to look away. “Be right there, Papa.” 

\----  
Sometime later...  
Mulder smells the roasting turkey as it wafts under his office door, hears the distant laughter that floats throughout the house. It was the only place he could think to go after the words she’d said to him. The only place safe from the trail of his destruction. 

His throat no longer burns from the fiery toll of the alcohol, dulled and numbed after the fourth or fifth swig. He doesn’t know where he fits in anymore, a sensation not altogether foreign to him. Like the rising and setting of the sun, he’d learned to depend on his position in Scully’s life. Over the years, she’d grown from the other half of his office space, to the other half of his heart, to the other half of his life. 

He hears her soft tones echo through the window by the porch, followed by the deeper baritones of the man he knows is seated beside her on the swing she loves so much. 

He’s become the third wheel in her life once again -- even worse, the third wheel in the life of his son’s. 

How much of a role does DNA play in fatherhood, he wonders; his own DNA stained by the betrayal his mother. Two fathers. One son. So like his own life, and yet fucked up in entirely different ways. Which father will he be to William. Which father does William *want* him to be? Either way, his absence in the life of his son grows stronger by the minute. Only this time, his absence is his choice. 

\----

“It’s nice out,” Scully hears as the screen door creeks, and she smiles politely at the deep voice, using her toe to push herself back and forth in the creaky wooden swing. “Still smells like a fire,” John says as the door closes behind him, and she murmurs in agreement, bringing the glass to her lips and letting the red liquid coat her tongue. 

She turns her head towards him and continues the steady motion of her toe on the wooden boards, rocking her body back and forth...back and forth. “Seems like you guys are having a great time in there.” 

He moves towards her and leans against the railing with a cross of his arms. “Will’s teaching Walter the finer points to that Mexican Train dominos game. I’m sitting a round out.” He shrugs. “Mind?” He points towards the open space beside her and she shakes her head, ceasing the rocking of the swing. 

Daggoo lifts his nose in the gentle breeze of the afternoon sun, breathing in the warm air with a deep sigh, before relenting control and unrolling his tiny body at her feet. She nudges him with her toes with a soft chuckle. 

“Quite the ferocious guard dog you’ve got there,” John agrees, leaning back in the seat and resting his arm against the back. 

Scully huffs in agreement. “He’s a good boy, though.” 

“How long have you had him?” he asks, bringing his beer bottle to his lips and taking a swig. 

“A few months,” she responds wistfully, leaning back. “I found him while Mulder and I were working on a case.” 

“Working on a case,” John repeats, looking out into the blowing grass in the breeze. “Amazing how much changes and how much stays the same, doesn’t it?” But she doesn’t say anything, instead using the silence to bring her wine to her lips again, hiding her eyes behind the clear stem. 

John clears his throat uncomfortably, and picks at the label on the glass bottle. “Haven’t seen much of Mulder today,” he says nonchalantly, as if asking about the weather or the poultry sizzling in the oven. His statements hangs in the air awkwardly, and she continues her silence, bringing her glass to her lips yet again and draining the contents. 

“I feel like I should tell you, Dana,” he continues, thoughtfully pinching his lip between his thumb and forefinger, “that I heard a little of the fight you two had earlier today.” 

She sighs into the warm breeze, nodding slowly as the words sink into her mind. “A lot’s happened in the last fifteen years, John,” she says softly, running her finger around the rim of her glass. 

“An understatement if I ever heard one,” he says into the tip of his beer bottle. 

“There’s been a lot of pain.” 

“I didn’t mean--” he starts, but she stands from the swing abruptly, jolting him as it jerks in her absence. 

“You know, it’s fine, really. We should uh--we should drink the rest of the beer tonight though. We’re gonna need the room in the fridge,” she says too quickly, and he stops her with a hand on her wrist. She gasps at his touch, looking down at where his larger hand encircles her tiny arm. 

“You know nothing of the pain Mulder and I have suffered,” she says thickly, shaking her arm free of his hold. “I will be forever grateful that you gave up your life and freedom to care for my child,” she says, covering her heart with her hand as her eyes fill with tears, “but please don’t pretend to understand the pain that Mulder and I have endured because of the loss of William.” 

“I know what it’s like to lose a son, Dana,” he reminds her gently. “I know what it’s like to watch a marriage fail because of it, too.” 

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It’s been…” She shakes her head. “It’s been a long couple of days.” 

“You know that I’ve always wished you happiness, right?” he tells her. “It’s all William and I ever prayed for you both.” The tears that escape down her face from his words freeze her in place, and her heart clenches in her chest.

“You can’t imagine the amount of times I wanted to send you a postcard, a letter -- something. Some way of contacting you to let you know about your son,” he says softly. “That he was cared for,” he finishes at length, letting his words hang in the silence of the night. 

Scully turns away and stares out into the open land. She wraps her arms around herself, chilled in the warm afternoon air. How many times had she told Mulder to not look for him, not search for their son like the elusive Truth he sought for decades? But how many times had she wished for a glimpse of her son’s well being, just a moment of knowing that he was happy...and loved. 

She swipes at the tear that runs down her face, and smiles sadly. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she tells him, turning around to face him again. “I don’t think I would have been able to stay away from you.”

\----

The screen door creaks with Scully’s arrival back in the house, and Mulder watches her move into the kitchen, ruffling William’s hair before checking on the turkey and pouring herself another glass of wine. Double-backing towards the fridge, she grabs a beer for the male companion she left outside-- the man who sits in what used to be his spot on their porch swing. ‘I don’t think I would have been able to stay away from you,’ he’d heard, and her voice still rings in his ears like a firecracker. 

Her words taunt him, mock him. Her face swirls in front of him in a whiskey-induced kaleidoscope of his own insecurities, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from lashing out at the phantom figments of his own imagination. 

“Heyya, Mulder,” he hears behind him, and he can’t help the way he jerks towards the sound of the voice. To the voice of the man his son calls Papa. ‘I don’t think I would have been able to stay away from you.’

“How’s the view from the cheapseats, John?” Mulder asks with a slight stagger, blinking the white dots from his vision as he stares into the shadows on the porch. 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not enough that you’ve laid claim on my son, but you have to start in on my wife, too?”

“Mulder, you’re out of line,” Scully says from the doorway, holding her wine in one hand and John’s beer in another. 

He teeters unsteadily as his vision focuses in on the redheaded woman in the doorway. “I heard--” he starts through clenched teeth. “Do you ever wish things were different, Scully?” 

“I wish a lot of things were different,” she answers honestly, a little too honestly as he watches her hand John the bottle of beer. “Is this in regards to something specific?” she asks, bringing her glass to her lips.

His tongue sits thick and dry in his mouth. “If I had stayed dead,” he starts, creeping towards her, “would you have considered different options?” The taunting of her voice still resonates in the far depths of his mind. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to stay away from you,’ it sings to him. 

“I beg your pardon?” Scully asks with a single rise of her brow. “Mulder, I think you’ve had too much--” But he ignores her, instead turning on the man beside her. 

“Would you have offered?” he asks John, surprising himself at the slow, melodious drawl to his voice that stands in stark contrast to the devouring irrational anger that eats at him.

John holds up his hands. “Look, Mulder, I don’t know what--”

“Bullshit!” Mulder yells, stomping his foot. “I see the way you look at her! It hasn’t changed in fifteen YEARS!” he hollers. 

“Mulder, stop it. William’s sitting right there,” she seethes, quickly glancing through the screen door. 

“Listen, Mulder,” John says, holding up his hands. “I know you’ve had a problem with me since I showed up.”

“I had a problem with you long before that.”

“Mulder,” Scully warns. 

“Did I ever tell you that I thought he was his?” Mulder tilts his chin towards John, a sad smile playing across his mouth. “Right after I...came back.” 

Scully looks to John with wide eyes, and shakes her head. “Mulder, how could you possibly think that? You *know* that you’re--”

“Oh, come on, Scully,” he says dismissively. “What’s so difficult to understand? I wake up from the dead, find you *very* pregnant,” his eyes drop her to belly, “with a new partner -- a new. very. observant. and. protective. partner,” he says, each word punctuated through clenched teeth.

John rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. I think it’s been a long couple of days, and you’ve had a little too much--”

“I’m fine.”

“No, Mulder, you’re not. Why are you doing this?” Scully whispers. 

He steps into her space and lowers his face to meet her tearful eyes with his own. “Because it just seems like whenever I’m absent, he’s all too happy to fill in that blank space,” he whispers forcefully, and she lowers her eyes. “And you seem all too happy to allow it.” Her face jerks up at his insinuation, his eyes boring into her. He sees the exact moment his words connect.

“Woah,” John warns, but Mulder steps in front of him, and lowers his voice menacingly. 

He meets John’s icy blue eyes. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t regret opening that casket.” 

“Mulder!” Scully cries in surprised disgust, and he turns his attentions back on her, lowering his voice intimately, cutting straight through her heart in the way that he’s perfected over the years -- the kind of gutting betrayal that comes when a partner uses your deepest fears and fantasies against you. 

“Just look me in the eye Scully and tell me that you wouldn’t have turned to him when the loneliness became too much. Offer him the empty place in your bed and the role of father for your son--” 

*SMACK*

The sting of pain he feels as her palm makes contact with his bruised cheek is enough to shake him from his drunken diatribe, gutting him in a whole new way, and making him hate himself even more than he thought possible. 

Over two decades together and she’d never once raised her hand to him. His skin tingles with the strength of their separation, each fingerprint on his skin a reminder of just how far they’ve moved away from each other, how broken they’ve become. 

He finally meets her eyes, watching a tear slip down her cheek now reddened with an entirely new emotion. Her lips tremble as she stalks away from him. 

“You’re pathetic,” she whispers with a resigned shake of her head, and just like that she’s gone. 

The slam of the screen door makes his face burn, and he turns away from it, instead casting his shame into the afternoon sun.

“You’re a real sonofabitch, you know that?” he hears behind him.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he tells the space between his legs, falling to the wooden step at his feet.

“So, I’ve been told,” John says, leaning against the railing. “How can you possibly think that there was something going on between Dana and me?”

Mulder waves his wrist, a silent plea to let him stew in his own misery. “It’s done. I never should’ve said it.” 

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” John crosses his arms over his chest. “Listen, nothin’ you say is gonna make me wanna pop you in the mouth anymore than I already do, but seein’ as how she beat me to it--”

“Do you have a point?”

“She’s still in love with you.” John scuffs his boots into the dirt, chuckling to himself before raising his face to the sky. “You’re the only one who can’t see that, man. You’re still the same self-centered asshole you were back when we first met.”

“Fuck you!” Mulder stands abruptly, his hands clenched at his sides, but John jerks forward, pointing his finger into Mulder’s chest.

“No, fuck *you* Mulder!” He presses his finger into Mulder’s chest, but Mulder bats it away with an angry clench of his jaw. 

“Get your fucking hands--”

“Fuck you for always disappearing and leaving me to pick up your fucking pieces!” 

John’s eyes stare daggers into him, but the fight soon leaves Mulder, and he’s forced back, staggering with shock. He scrubs his face with a shake of his head, turning away with his hands on his hips. 

He clears the emotion from his throat. “Pick up the pieces,” is all he can say, repeating the words back to the sky. “Is that what you really think?” he asks the heavens, unable to meet John’s eyes, and in his peripheral vision he sees John shift his weight.

“I know I did for a long time,” John answers honestly. “Maybe not as much since I got Will.”

“You raised my son, John. Isn’t that the ultimate piece you had to pick up?” Mulder finally looks over at the other man, allowing the tears to freefall down his face. 

“I fell in love with the kid,” he answers gently. “Plus, I didn’t do it for you, Mulder. William is too important to Them. I didn’t like the idea of him being at Their disposal,” he explains softly, sighing with a shuffle of his feet. 

Mulder nods, allowing the silence to fill the space between them for a quiet moment. “You see,” Mulder starts with a sniff. “You might have felt like you were always picking the pieces I left behind,” he tells him, turning to face John squarely, “but I feel like you got the best of Scully. The best of William.” He pulls his lip between his teeth, pressing his finger back into John’s chest.

“*You* got the life I couldn’t have. And I hate you for it,” he finishes with a punch of his finger, and John stumbles slightly from the force of the blow. With a sad smile, Mulder drops his hand, and backs away, returning to the step. 

“If you think those were her best, then you’re the one who knows nothing,” Mulder hears John say, watching as the other man sits down beside him. “I didn’t get her best, Mulder.” John shakes his head with a scrub of his face. 

“I got her broken-hearted. I got the frantic woman searching for her partner. But, it wasn’t until your body was found in that field that I realized…,” he pauses, swallowing with a shake of his head. “I got the grieving widow clutching the folded flag to her chest.” 

Mulder turns his head and stares at the profile of the other man, watching the memories play behind his mind. “I’ll never forget the...sound,” he says gruffly, “she made when she realized you were gone.” John shakes his head of the memory, sighing deeply into the night. “I didn’t get the best of her.”

“She never told me any of this,” Mulder says thickly. “The good, the bad. Nothing.” So many memories and nightmares shared between them yet never discussed. It’s no wonder they can barely stand to look at each other now. He sees betrayal in her abandonment, and she sees the same in his. Nothing more than two hearts that cannot beat without the other, but cripple under the weight of resentment. The saddest part about it, he realizes, is that their acts of betrayal weren’t entirely of their own makings -- products of years of decisions being made without the other’s consent. 

“Did you ever *ask* her?” John asks, and Mulder catches his sideways glance before simply shaking his head in the negative. How can he ask the sole survivor of his destruction to share her pain when he had been the ultimate cause of it?

“About a month after your funeral,” John starts again, leaning back on the steps and resting his weight on his elbows, “we were sittin’ in the office working on some reports, and I remember staring at the wall, thinking that the water stain near the radiator looked like the Mona Lisa. Dana noticed me looking at it, and without my even telling her what I was thinking, she said she thought the stain always looked like--”

“Jesus,” Mulder answers with a knowing smile. 

“Bingo,” John says, touching his finger to his nose. “But then she suddenly gasped, and I looked over, right, freaking out that something was wrong with her or the baby,” he sighs. “And then she was just staring at her lap, smiling.” He looks down at his own lap with a shrug of his hands in amazement. “She had her hands on her belly...and I mean it wasn’t like her belly was even that big yet--”

“What was wrong?” 

“She uhm...she had felt the baby move for the first time.” He smiles fondly at the memory, and Mulder feels fresh tears prick his eyes.

He looks away. “I wish I could have seen that.” 

“So did she,” John counters.

“What do you mean?”

But John ignores his question, continuing his story. “It was awkward, really, and we never… It was like she’d just...forgotten...that you weren’t there because when I stood up to check on her, she reached for my hand and said, ‘Mulder, the baby…’” he recounts and Mulder feels his heart clench in his chest. 

“I think she realized what she’d said,” John continues, “because she just sort of sat there for a couple of seconds, blushing like crazy.”

“What did you do?” Mulder asks, wanting the story to continue, to continue to live in a moment he’d missed so many years ago. 

“I brushed it off, of course,” John tells him. “Blamed it on pregnancy brain. God knows my wife called me the dog’s name a couple of times when she was pregnant, so it’s not like…” he trails off, pausing to collect his thoughts. “I could see it in her face, though. Like a bubble had burst, you know? Reality slapping her in the face…You weren’t there. And you weren’t coming back.” John rises forward and rests his forearms on his knees, mirroring the position of the man beside him.

“*That’s* how it was, Mulder. Behind every good moment was the memory of *you*. Every kick that kid made in her was one more kick that you would never feel. Another reminder of the life she would live without you. It was--”

“Horrible,” Skinner says from the screen door, and both men turn to see him standing there. “I heard you guys from inside,” he explains moving towards the railing and resting his arms on the wood. “Still smells like a fire,” he says absently, taking off his glasses and wiping the surface with his shirt. Both men nod in agreement, keeping their faces forward, lost in their own thoughts.

“Mulder, those of us who were there while you were gone know the toll your absence took on her,” Skinner relays, and John nods in agreement, staring at the steps between his legs. “Which is the only reason we let her follow your sorry ass out of that prison and into hiding, effectively ruining her career in the process.”

Skinner pushes himself up from the railing with a sigh. “John and I each lost our wives because we were too busy with our heads up our asses. Don’t let the same thing happen to you,” he tells him, patting the railing twice. “Get your shit together. The both of you.” He moves back to the door. “For the sake of your son.” 

Silence falls between them, years of resentment and bitterness blowing away into the breeze. Mulder stands with a sigh, and offers his hand to John. “I’m sorry about before.” 

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” John accepts his handshake, and meet his eyes with the weight of his words. 

“Yeah, well,” Mulder says, pulling his hand away and stuffing it in his pockets. “If I know one thing about her, she’s not ready to talk, yet. Quite frankly neither am I.” 

John nods understandingly using the railing to rise from the steps with a groan. “You comin’ inside?”

“No, I’m...gonna take a walk for a little bit. Clear my head.” 

Just before he turns the corner around the side of the house, Mulder stops and calls back to the other man. “Hey, John!” he calls out. 

“Thank you,” Mulder tells him sincerely. “For picking up my pieces.” 

\------

He’s always loved this time of the day, the way the sun dances across the tall grass blades as they blow in the wind. Oranges and pinks, purples and blues, with clouds that linger in the distance add to its dramatic appeal. Another day gone in this new world they find themselves in, protected behind the gates of the property from the destruction that awaits them outside its borders. 

He sees William sitting in the field, recognizing his scraggly hair and torn jeans, his gangly teenage body so much like his own at the same age. The sun glitters off the top of his head and he’d never noticed it until now, how red his hair looks under the sun’s gleaming rays. Observing him from afar, his gut clenches in immediate self reproach at the sense of fear that still grips him while in the presence of his son, an apprehension of the unknown.

Baseball, girls, comic books, chores… Those were things fathers and sons discussed, right? Curfews, and report cards, broken hearts and how to pin a corsage… Of all the things Fox Mulder dreamt in those too-quiet moments when he’d been left alone with his thoughts, it never once occurred to him that such an awkwardness would exist between them. His presence in William’s life is like being caught in a game of tug of war, torn between old and new. 

William kneels and softly croons to a red and white creature in the middle of the field. It takes Mulder only a second to recognize William’s discovery as a rabbit, dead or injured if the red patterns on the fur mean what he thinks they do. But just as Mulder opens his mouth to halt his son’s attempt to touch the animal, he watches him cover the rabbit’s body with his hands, and close his eyes in tight concentration. 

Mulder stares at the scene in utter wonderment. For all of his searching far and wide, flying quite literally to the ends of the earth in search of the elusive proof, how ironic that it should be his son who proves to be his ultimate answer, sitting right there in front of him in his own front yard. 

“Cool trick,” Mulder finds himself uttering, as the revived rabbit scurries away from his redeemer. 

William jumps at the sound of his voice, finally alerted to his presence. “I didn’t know anyone else was out here,” he says, his eyes darting around.

As Mulder steps closer, he watches his son’s throat bob nervously. “It’s just me. Everyone else is in the house.” He watches as William visibly relaxes. “How long you been able to do that?” Mulder asks cautiously, squatting into the grass and picking aimlessly at the weeds that crowd his ankles. 

William shrugs. Pulling his knees up, he pushes at the soft dirt with a stick. “I dunno,” he answers finally. “Forever, I guess.”

Mulder nods with a turn of his head, squinting into the sky. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?” he asks, his tone even and without blame, turning his face back to William. “If I had that kind of party trick, I’d be bustin’ it out all the time. Get girls,” he finishes with a wry smile. 

The corners of William’s mouth lift in amusement, but fall flat after a beat. “No one really knows,” he admits. 

“Does John know?” 

William cocks his head to the side and mutters, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Mulder repeats, pulling his knees up and mirroring his son’s position. 

“Papa knows,” he says. “But, he made me promise not to do it.” William looks away with a roll of his eyes.

“Why do you think he did that?” Mulder asks with a tilt of his chin. 

“Said it wasn’t safe or something. I dunno,” William finishes with a sigh. 

“He was right, William,” Mulder says with a sympathetic nod, surprising himself as the words he never thought he would say tumble from his mouth. “It was the right thing to keep it a secret.”

William shrugs reluctantly. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“You have a very powerful ability there, something that-” Mulder pauses with careful consideration, “isn’t... generally seen in a lot of people. John did the right thing to keep that from getting out, and I would have done the same thing.” 

“It’s just hard to see them hurting is all,” William says with a soft voice, avoiding Mulder’s gaze. 

“Is that why you help injured creatures when you think no one is looking?” 

“Papa doesn’t know I do that. I told him I wouldn’t ever-” William begins to explains, and Mulder holds out his hand, calming his fears. 

“It’s okay. I won’t tell him if you don’t want me to.”

“I hate it,” William whispers. “I can feel their pain,” he adds, turning his face away with a bite of his lip. 

Mulder nods in acute understanding, though only recently aware of his son’s onerous ability. He wonders what William has felt radiating from himself in the brief time since they’d met -- the anger, the resentment, the fear. Had William thought it was directed at him? Had he ever questioned his love for him, the same two day old infant he’d pressed his lips to and didn’t see again for fifteen years?

The glistening in William’s eyes is apparent even with the shift of his face, and in that instant, Mulder’s heart breaks for his son upon seeing the turmoil and the burden, the days and years of hiding secrets sliding down his cheeks in two twin tears. 

“I’m so sorry, William.” Mulder’s throat tightens with unbridled guilt and regret. Days and years of his own pain and secrets burn behind his eyes, and he only hopes that one day his son can forgive him for not being there when he could have used him the most. An ally to face his unforgiving abilities with. 

“It’s not your fault,” William tells him. 

A memory tickles in the back of Mulder’s mind, words heard whispered through the paper-thin walls of a bedroom the night before. Words not meant for his or Scully’s ears, but heard nonetheless. It only makes what he needs to say all the more meaningful in more ways than one. “It’s not your fault, either.”

The look on William’s face makes Mulder wonder just how long William’s been needing to hear that. 

“Can I ask you something?” William asks with a sniff. 

“Anything.” 

“Why don’t you go by your first name?” 

Mulder laughs in surprise, grateful at the shift in conversation, as William turns his body to face him squarely. “I, uh, I don’t think anyone would want to go by the name Fox,” Mulder tells him with a grimace. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a smile spread across Will’s face. 

“What about your parents?”

“No,” Mulder sighs. “They were some of the few that I allowed to continue calling me Fox.” 

“But Dana calls you Mulder, too,” William states and Mulder can’t help the smile that crosses his face. 

“Years ago, when your mom and I first met,” he says, “we were on a stakeout. I insisted that she call me Mulder. It stuck, I guess.” 

“Why though?” William asks, leaning back on his hands and stretching out his legs. 

“Uh…,” Mulder shifts his weight and stretches his legs in front of him. “I don’t know, really. I guess it just seemed...appropriate,” he says. “At the time,” he adds after a beat. 

“But she still calls you Mulder,” William states, and Mulder nods slowly, scratching his jaw with a far away stare.

“Not always.” He smiles wistfully. “So, what about you, kid? What do you prefer to be called?”

“I guess William or Will. There was this guy we used to know. Richard. Always called me Bill,” he grumbles with a frustrated groan. “I must have corrected him a thousand times, but he wouldn’t stop.” He stabs his stick into the the earth. “Drove me crazy.”

“So what’d you do?”

William bows his head to hide the cheeky smile that tweaks the corners of his mouth. “I started calling him Dick. I’d ask him, ‘Hey, Dick, how’s it hanging today?’”

William’s struggle not to laugh is lost as Mulder barks out laughter.

“So, this one day he had been complaining about a crick in his neck. All day he whined about his cot and his crappy pillow,” William says, struggling to keep his face sober as he continues his story. “So, I walked up to him and go, ‘Looking pretty stiff there, Dick.’”

The awkwardness that Mulder once felt around his son evaporates in the wind, lost in their shared laughter. 

“Bill’s not a bad name though,” Mulder tells him. “You were named after a Bill.”

“I was?” William asks in surprise, sitting forward interestedly. 

“You were.” Mulder nods. “You come from a long line of Williams, actually.” 

“Really? Who?” William asks. 

“Well, there’s my father,” Mulder replies as he holds up a finger, “Scully’s father,” he holds up a second finger, “*and* Scully’s brother,” he finishes with the lift of a third finger. 

“Woah.” 

“Yeah, woah,” Mulder agrees. “Oh. And my middle name is William, so there’s that,” he adds with a dismissive lift of his brows. 

“So, I was named after you, then?” he asks curiously, and Mulder shakes his head with a soft smile. 

“No,” he says, pulling his knees back up and wrapping his arms around them. “Your mother decided to name you after my father,” he tells the dirt between his legs. 

“Why not hers?” 

Mulder shifts against the hard earth, biting his lip in concentration. “Your grandfather, Scully’s father,” he clarifies, “was a good man. An honorable man,” he says with distinction. “Naval captain. He and Scully were very close.”

“And your father?” 

Mulder rolls his head with a deep sigh, shaking his head in thought, unsure of where to begin. What should he tell his son about his namesake, about the acts he witnessed and participated in? Would knowing William Mulder’s complicity in the experiments and projects that ultimately led to his son’s creation change his son’s opinion about the grandfather he would never know? 

“It was complicated, wasn’t it- the relationship with your father?” William asks with a grimace.

Mulder nods with a poignant silence. “It was,” he sighs. “In a lot of ways. But in the end, William Mulder was different from William Scully. Different in a lot of ways. I never expected her to name you after *my* father when her own had been so important.” 

William regards him with a cock of his head, narrowing his eyes. “Clearly, she saw something in him, though,” he tells his father, and Mulder casts a sad smile, finally meeting his son’s eyes. 

“Sure. I’m sure she saw bravery, on some level. Maybe sacrifice.” Mulder turns his face into the final remnants of the setting sun. “I think she saw a man who, though not without his faults, tried to the save the world…” he trails off with a thick swallow. “Even when he couldn’t save his own family,” Mulder finishes at length. 

William hums in response, pondering what he’s just heard, but then shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says as he leans back on his hands once again. “He sounded like a good man to me. He sounds a lot like you,” he adds, meeting the eyes of his father. “That’s probably what she saw.” 

Mulder’s jaw opens as he drops his eyes, staring into the dusty earth with a impressed twist of his head, a smile forming on his lips even as tears flood his vision. “Maybe,” he says gruffly. 

William shrugs. “Just a feeling I have.”

Mulder closes his eyes against the cooling wind of the early night, allowing the sun to kiss his face in the final moments of the day. His father had sacrificed his life, sacrificed his family to save greater humanity. He tells himself his own absence was just that - a sacrifice for the sake of Scully and their son. In many ways it had been. But with the arrival and subsequent passing of a date that he and Scully had used as reasoning behind their lack of searching for William, he wonders if his acts were more cowardly than brave. More self-serving, than sacrificial. Even in the wake of his father’s heroic acts, his father had still died alone, his own family having been the ultimate sacrifice for the cause. Mulder shivers with the fear that his own actions might lead him to a similar fate.

“Just so you know,” Mulder starts with a heavy heart, the years of his father’s bread crumb approval sitting thickly in his throat. “I never want you to question how much your mother and I…” he trails off, starting again, saying the words his father never said. “I’m proud of you, son.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything.” 

Mulder shrugs. “You don’t have to.”

William beams at him with his mother’s smile, the same dimpled grin that reminds him of the fresh-faced woman he laughed with in an Oregon cemetery. “Thanks, Mulder.”

He hadn’t realized until this moment that Mulder is the last thing he wants his own child to call him. It’s the first time he’s ever hated the sound of his own name. 

“Is it raining?” William asks, ignoring the plight of his father to raise his face to the night’s sky. “What the-?” he asks, holding out his hands to feel the whispering tickle falling from the sky. 

Mulder peers curiously at the surrounding ground before reaching for the flashlight and turning it on. He holds his son’s hand under the beam of the light, bending down to touch the soft flakes with his own fingers. 

“Ashes,” Mulder answers, lifting the light into the night and watching the ashes fall from the sky like a winter’s first snow. “Oh my god,” he marvels, turning to his son with wide eyes. Their eyelashes dot with the grey speckles, their hair slowly shifting color as they stand in the middle of the open sky. 

“It smelled like a fire all day,” William explains, holding his palms up to collect the ash. “Wind must have blown it this way. We dealt with forest fires a lot when-”

“It’s not a forest fire,” Mulder says resolutely. 

William blows on his palm and watches the dust filter into the air. “Then what is it?” 

“Those clouds,” Mulder says, trailing off with a shake of his head. “Oh god,” he breathes. 

“What?”

“They’re burning the bodies,” he says. 

“The bodies?” 

Mulder nods. “Yeah, the sick bodies. They have to burn them,” he tells him. “There’s too many…”

Mulder watches as understanding dawns on his son’s face, the way his eyes widen as he turns around to view his surroundings in pure awe. 

“Let’s get back to the house. I need to tell Scully,” Mulder tells him, and William nods in agreement as they begin their short trek. 

“Gives a whole new meaning to ‘Ring Around The Rosy’, doesn’t it?” William asks without lifting his head, and before Mulder can answer his question, his young sing-song voice interrupts in a warped slow melody. 

“Ashes… Ashes… We all fall down....” 

\---

“Dinner’s on,” John tells Mulder as he and William make their way back inside the house. 

Mulder shakes his head and gestures to the stairs. “I’ll eat in a second. Is she upstairs?” he asks, and Skinner nods, placing the bowl of potatoes in the center of the table. 

“As far as I know,” Skinner tells him. 

William looks up at Mulder. “Should we tell them? About the ashes?” he asks, and Mulder nods, gripping his shoulder. 

“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” Mulder tells William. “I need to talk to Scully.”

The stairs creak as he makes his way to their room. He pauses in front of the closed door, steadying the flutter in his chest before he decides to rap twice, signaling his arrival. Without waiting for an answer, he opens it slowly and steps inside. 

“I’m not ready to talk to you,” Scully tells him as soon as he crosses the threshold. 

“Too bad.” He closes the door behind him and leans against the dark wood. “We need to talk.” 

She huffs to herself with a resentful shake of her head. “Now you want to talk?” she asks as she stands and turns to face him. “Well then let’s talk. What else do you want to say, Mulder?” She moves towards him as she rounds the bed. “Did you come up here to finish what you started, to tell me what a whore you think I am?” 

Mulder sighs with a press of his head against the back of the door. “Scully, that’s not--I didn’t--” he stammers, and she crosses her arms over her chest, raising her eyebrow in wait of whatever bullshit excuse she’s come to expect from him. 

“It’s raining ashes outside,” he tells her, and she has to blink twice to understand the relevance of his statement, before he adds, “They’re burning the bodies.” Not what she expected, though not altogether shocking, it still cuts straight through her heart and makes her eyes burn with angry tears. 

“Is *that* what you came up here to tell me?” she asks in a dangerous whisper. 

“Scully.” 

“Fuck you!” she yells at him, pushing him completely into the door. “Mulder, not thirty minutes ago you asked me if I would have replaced you- if I would have so easily fallen for another had you, in your own words, stayed dead.” She shakes her hair from her cheek. “And instead of coming in here to apologize for hurting me, for humiliating me in front of John and within earshot of *our son*, you come in here and tell me about the dead bodies that are burning?” 

He reaches for her hands, but she pulls them from his grasp. 

“No! I don’t give a *shit* about the burning bodies!” she cries, wiping her hair away from her face. “I don’t care about what’s happening out *there* right now, Mulder!” 

He pushes away from the door, and catches her upper arm in a vice like grip. His pupils dilate before her eyes, passion rippling from him in heavy waves that hit her in nauseating currents too familiar in their undertones. 

“Scully, we have to talk about what’s happening,” he implores, and she scoffs, ripping her arm violently out of his grasp. 

“Have you heard anything I’ve said?” she asks in breathless wonder, shocked and dismayed by his lack of insight. 

“Yes, Scully, I have, and believe me, prior to ten minutes ago, I had every intention of coming up here and discussing my sorry, inexcusable behavior, but William and I were outside and-”

“You were outside with William?” she asks, and he nods vigorously. 

“Yes, I was, and we had a great discussion, and I want to tell you all about it,” he says in a hurry, “but can we table *us* for a moment, please? There are more important things happening that require our attention. At this moment.”

Her jaw drops with a rush of breath, his appearance blurring before her with a rush of new tears. “More important,” she repeats with dejected nod. 

Her chest aches with a pain that she thought had only just recently lessened. Only now, she realizes that maybe it had never truly subsided, rather only dulled in the absence of the other pieces of her that were left behind when she left. It had been the kind of heartache that left her curled in a ball in her empty apartment, following her down the paths of the hospital and squirreling into every detail of her life, including the few men she tried to erase the pain with. 

As she stands before him now, she mentally curses herself for falling into his web yet again -- believing him capable of change when the very nature of who he is will always remain so inconceivably incompatible to her needs and nature.

“Fine, Mulder.” She closes her eyes with a relenting shake of her head, feeling the fight leave her with a disheartened pang in her chest. “You win,” she sighs. “Let’s talk about what’s happening outside.” 

He blanches in her sudden shift, his jaw slack as he watches her sag on the edge of the mattress, crossing her arms in resignation. “Scully...I…,” he trails off, unsure of what to say to her. 

“You wanted to talk about what’s important, Mulder, so let’s talk,” she reminds him with a quiver to her voice that makes his face fall in realization. 

“Scully,” he sighs, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of her. He looks up at her with such a tenderness that just for a moment she’s able to see past her own anger and dejection, looking again into the eyes of the man she fell in love with. 

“You’re what’s important,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know how much you mean to me.” He lifts his hand to her lap, brushing her fingers with his own. 

At her silence, he breathes her name in a unspoken plea for forgiveness and drops his head into her lap. She quivers with the rush of hot breath that dances through the material of her pants, skittering across the skin of her thighs. 

“I don’t know why I’m still surprised when you do this,” she laughs mirthlessly, squeezing the bedspread in tight fists to avoid running her hand through his hair, denying herself the pleasure of feeling the silky threads slip between fingers or her nails scraping against his scalp the way she used to do when he’d fall asleep against her breast. 

She’s surprised by the calmness in her voice, saddened at the lack of emotion she so wishes to continue to throw at him if only to provoke the words she knows they each keep hidden, handcuffed by resentment and years of unspoken fears. 

“I’m sorry about earlier. About all of it,” he says, lifting his face to hers. 

“I know you are,” she whispers with a sad smile, tenderly brushing an errant strand of hair away from his forehead. She feels him shudder, and press her hand to his cheek, turning his mouth against her palm. The rasp of his unshaven face tickles the skin of her wrist. “You always are.” 

He closes his eyes in surrender, releasing her hand. Releasing her. Letting her go. 

She stands from the bed with unstable legs, her chest aching from the finality that seems to swirl around them, forever two steps forward and one step back. She crosses to the door, but he stops her attempt to leave, stalling her twist of the knob.

“Don’t,” he sighs, pressing against her back and gripping her hip with his free hand. “Please,” he pleads softly against her neck, and her eyelids flutter when his breath blows against the fine hairs there, the ache in her chest deepening with a dueling pang that begins to settle low in her gut. 

He covers her from behind, and she braces her hands against it, steadying her herself against the conflict of emotion. Stay. Go. No matter what her choice, she’ll live with the regret. “I can’t keep doing this,” she tells him in a tearful whisper, pressing her forehead against the cool wood of the door as a tear streaks down her cheek.

“Then don’t.” 

With the soft press of his lips against her neck, the decision is made for her, and her knees dip with the familiar sensation that courses through her, her body remembering what her heart and mind are so fearful to accept. “Stay,” he whispers, and she shivers against the wood. Drops of condensation collect on the surface with each huff of hot desire that escapes her mouth.

He pushes her flat against the door, eliciting nothing more than a hum out of her mouth as his hips begin to thrust gently into her backside, his hands roaming up and down her sides. He whispers her name against her shoulder. A plea. A beckoning. Stay. 

It’s easier to fight against it, to walk away instead of giving in, but even in the impossibility of their relationship, he’s still the only person she can see spending her life with. And as he presses against her with his whispered pleas, she’s reminded of the intensity of his love for her -- unquestioning, never failing -- and she longs to feel the depth of it, to be consumed by it even if it crushes her again; smothering her as it did for so long. When his tongue dips out to taste the salt of her neck she succumbs to the battle she was never really fighting. 

She hisses when his hands slide up her shirt, gripping both of her breasts with a soft squeeze. Their moans are lost in the other, and she pushes her hands against the door, pressing back against him. 

“God, Scully,” he whispers, and she reaches behind her, raking her fingers through his hair, and her head falls to the side, allowing him the access she’d so long denied. Her skin tingles in memory of his hands on her body, settling between her legs with a deepening ache. She needs more. She wants more. 

With a swift turn, her lips are on his, her strangled sob swallowed by the heat of his mouth. Their tongues immediately join, dipping in and out in a dance they’d perfected over time, deftly swiping across each other. 

He tastes of whiskey. The honeyed, smoky remnants still linger on his tongue after his self-flagellating binge, and she sucks it desperately into her mouth, moaning when he clenches her hair in a fierce grip and wrenches her head back to expose the length of her neck. His teeth sink into the pulsing life line that runs along the side, claiming her, sucking the life from her. Warmth floods her center, tingling down to her toes with a familiar burn. She remembers this. 

She cups his cheeks, and his hiss reminds her of the bruised flesh that dots his face, remnants of her attacks against him. Though she doesn’t remember the first, she remembers the second with acute clarity, and she digs her fingers deeper, needing his pain as much as she needs her own. 

His hips grind into her with a grunt, and he wrenches her hands away with a low warning deep in his throat. His grip is harsh, but she forgets the burning pain in her arm when his teeth clamp down on her bottom lip. The iron taste of her own blood coats her tongue and she welcomes it. His tongue darts out to swirl with her own, tasting the life of her as he presses his erection into her stomach. She opens her eyes, meeting his heated gaze. Unblinking, he nips again and she whimpers, shivering as the pain’s tempered release races down her back and settles her skin ablaze. Her hips roll of their own accord, and she lifts her chin, biting into the mottled skin of his raspy jaw. Impossible as their relationship may be, this was the one thing they always got right -- the dance back and forth between love and pain. 

“Stay.” His voice is ragged as he pulls at her hips and presses into her with a slow grind. He’s hard against her belly, and she whimpers at the feel of it, slipping her hand between them and palming the heated length of him. 

He gasps against her mouth, releasing his grip on her wrist to roughly cup her breast with a low growl. He twists her nipple through her layers of clothing, and she can’t help the shudder that ripples through her. The feral lift of his lips makes her quiver in anticipation.

“Make me.” 

\---

The car rolls up the long driveway, the bolt cutter used to gain entry past the gate sitting beside the handgun and silencer. The dirt tumbles beneath the heavy wheels of the vehicle and the headlights dip and bounce with each uneven bump, reflecting off the specks of ash that cover the field like snow. 

The small white house comes into view, unremarkable in its old fashioned charm. The car slows. A man appears on the porch. Then another. Then a third, though younger. 

The target. 

\---

“Will, go back inside!” John hollers, pointing his finger at the door.

“Any idea who it might be?” Skinner asks, cocking his weapon and squinting into the harsh headlights. 

“No,” John tells him, lifting his rifle into position. “But seein’ as how we’re not expectin’ any company…” He narrows his eyes as the windshield finally comes into view, the person behind the wheel taking shape. 

“Is that--?” Skinner asks, looking towards John with brows pinched in confusion. 

“What the hell?”

\---

Mulder’s arms wrap around her as he lifts her into the air and turns them towards the bed. Their tongues twist and duel as she pulls at his shirt, craving his skin on hers. He lays her on the bed, and she reaches for him, yanking at his belt buckle as he tosses his shirt to the other side of the room. 

She marvels at the sight of him, strong and virile, remembering all too well how close she came to losing him only days before. Deftly, she sits up and pulls off her own shirt, quickly pulling him on top of her before she allows reason to overtake her desire for him. 

He swallows her moan as he presses her into the mattress, his hips rocking in a delicious rhythm, friction building and rubbing where she aches for it the most. His hand skirts down the side of her, pulling her leg over his hips with a grinding thrust that makes her moan aloud. 

He reaches between them, hovering above her face as his hand cups the flesh between her legs. He stokes her desire with each press of his fingers, and she arches up into him, seeking more. He pulls at her pants, and the traitorous button releases its hold with an easy slip of his fingers. 

There’s a knock. 

She gasps as she closes her legs instinctively against the impending intrusion. 

“Not now!” Mulder barks, stilling his hand on her belly as he faces his heaving chest towards the source of the disturbance. 

“We need you downstairs,” they hear Skinner say through the door. 

Mulder closes his eyes with a frustrated sigh. The muscles in his jaw twitch with each conflicted grind of his molars. He glances down to her beneath him, his eyes skittering over her bra clad form. He shakes his head. 

“It’s gonna have to wait,” he tells Skinner, leaning down to press his lips to her’s again, but Skinner clears his throat, and knocks once more.

“There’s someone here to see you.” 

With a grumble, Mulder darts from the bed, cracking the door to preserve the privacy of their encounter from intruding eyes. 

“Who?” Mulder asks, and Skinner pauses only a moment. 

“It’s Monica.” 

___


	6. Present and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order for a new beginning, an ending must come first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, folks. Thank you for hanging with us for the ride. And as always, thank you so much @bohoartist for the beta. You're an amazing person, and we are so happy to have been able to share this with you.

“Monica Reyes?” Mulder asks as he shuts the door, dumbfounded as Scully rushes to right her appearance. 

“It would appear so,” she utters, her words muffled through the cotton of her t-shirt as she pulls it over her head, then runs her hands through her hair. She flits her eyes to Mulder as she tucks a rogue strand behind her ear. “You might want to put a shirt on, too.”

“Right.” His eyes bounce around the bedroom in search of his discarded shirt, before it’s airborne and colliding with his chest. “Thanks,” he says before slipping it on and adding, “I wasn’t aware that she knew where we lived.”

“Neither was I,” Scully says. 

Mulder stops her with a grasp of her wrist as they get to the door. “What do you think she wants? A place to stay?”

“How would I know?” Scully asks, pulling her hand from his. 

Mulder leans back onto his heels and shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Nothing, Mulder, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Scully throws open the door and crosses the threshold before turning back to him. “Are you coming?” 

The words I would have been if we weren’t interrupted teeter on the tip of his tongue, but the glare she casts in his direction forces him to swallow them. “Yep,” he says instead, and rests his hand on the small of her back when he catches up with her in the hallway, allowing her to lead into the kitchen. 

Monica stands alone next to the table with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her dark jacket is lined with streaks of white and grey, smears of each futile attempt to wipe off the ash that still falls from the sky. John and William stand at the opposite end of the room, the boy’s stance mirroring his Papa’s with their hands shoved in their pockets and heads hanging low. Skinner sits by himself at the head of the table, his hands folded underneath his chin. 

“Monica Reyes,” Mulder says and begins to cross the room to shake her hand, when Scully grips his arm and holds him back.

She steps in front of Mulder, placing herself between him and Monica, then asks, “What are you doing here?” 

Mulder places his hand on Scully’s shoulder. “Scully, it’s fine-”

“Mulder, don’t,” Scully snaps. 

Monica takes a step forward towards Scully. “Dana, please I need-”

“You need to leave,” Scully says. 

Mulder and Skinner both pass their confused gazes from Scully to Monica, and back to Scully. John shakes his head.

“Why do I feel like the odd man out here?” Mulder asks.

Skinner sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re not the only one.”

Monica turns to Scully with a slight grimace on her face. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Mulder asks.

Scully doesn’t meet his eyes, and instead continues to glare at Monica. “That she’s a traitor,” Scully finally answers, nearly spitting out the sour taste of truth on her tongue with each consonant. “That she made the choice to switch sides.”

Mulder turns to face monica but takes a step back, putting more distance between them as if her traitorous ways could be as contagious as the trojan virus. His eyebrows furrow as he looks at a woman who years ago he would say he thought he knew pretty well, but turned out to be a complete stranger. “Is this true?” 

“It is,” Monica says, “but if you’ll just let me explain, I think you of all people, Mulder, will understand.” 

John stifles a laugh with the back of his hand as he stands like a fixture against the far wall of the kitchen, his presence well-known but easily forgotten. Of course she assumes Mulder would understand, he thinks. William turns to John with an inquisitive look, but John shakes his head and waves him off. “I’ll tell you later.”

“William?” Monica asks. Her eyes grow large as she takes in the sight of the young man. “My God, is that really you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” William utters as he stands up straight and extends his hand out to her.

“No!” Scully crosses the room and places herself between Monica and William with squared shoulders. “Don’t you touch him!”

“Dana,” John says with a sigh. He steps forward and grasps her hand. “Come on, now.” 

“No, she doesn’t touch my son!” Scully jerks from John’s grip, but doesn’t take her eyes off of Monica. “I don’t even want her in the same room- William, get upstairs,” she says suddenly. She reaches behind her and pulls at her son’s arm, urging him towards the stairs. William reluctantly takes a step to the side, and then stops when Scully doesn’t release his arm.

“But Dana-” Monica starts.

Scully’s eyes are wide as she shakes her head. “You need to leave. Monica, I’ve dealt with people like you for years, people who wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit them in the ass. You fight the fight when it’s easy, but then switch sides as soon as the going gets tough. I’ve watched it happen time and time again, watched people I know and love get hurt because of cowards like you, and I won’t let another coward hurt my son-” 

“I’m the reason John even found him!” Monica yells.

Scully freezes and utters, “What?” 

“Eleven years ago I went to John and gave him the information to find and save William,” Monica rushes to say. 

“Monica,” John says, her name clipped with warning.

Scully turns to John, once again pulling William behind her. “But, John, you said that the Van de Kamps had given you the information regarding William’s location.”

Skinner crosses the room to William and he puts his hand on his shoulder. “Come on, son, let’s step outside.”

William shrugs from underneath Skinners grasp. “No, I want to hear this.”

Skinner can feel it as Scully’s gaze pierces through him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I think he’s heard enough for now,” he says. After a moment, she nods in agreement. 

“That’s not fair,” William says, his voice high in disbelief. “You’re talking about *me*! *My* life! I have a right to know-”

“Will. Outside.” John says. The sternness in his voice is punctuated with his finger pointing at William, then at the door. 

“Don’t you talk to him like that,” Mulder says taking a step towards John, but stops once Scully grips his hand and holds him in place.

“William, please go with Walter,” Scully says. “We’ll explain everything later once we know-”

“That’s bullshit!” William yells throwing his arms in the air. 

“William!” John barks. 

“You’re just going to give me some watered down kid version of my own life! The same bullshit you’ve been feeding me for years, and look how well that’s worked out,” William says as he turns and storms off through the living room and out the front door, slamming it on his way out.

Scully turns to follow her son, but Skinner crosses in front of her. “It’s fine, he’s fine,” he assures her. “You stay and finish...this. I’ll go talk to him.”

“Please make sure he doesn’t go far, we don’t know who’s out there,” Scully says, avoiding the urge to glance at Monica. “You watch him, Walter.”

“You know I will,” Skinner responds before leaving the kitchen, leaving them in silence. 

Not taking his eyes off of John, Mulder’s jaw clenches at the thought of yet another betrayal. The fact that John is still hoarding secrets, even after their finding level ground, has his blood pressure so high that Scully would surely insist he be medicated. “John,” he says through clenched teeth. “You were saying?”

“Technically speaking, I did get William’s location from the Van de Kamps,” John replies.

“Then what is she talking about?” Scully asks.

John looks to Monica, wordlessly asking for assistance, but is met instead with a look of apology. He sighs and turns to Scully. “Dana, you have to understand-”

Scully chuffs. “Understand what, John? That after everything we have been through in the last forty-eight hours, you’re still keeping information from us?”

“Information regarding *our* son,” Mulder adds, pushing his index finger into the center of his own chest. 

John eyes grow wide. “Hey man, don’t you forget who’s been raisin’ him-”

“You sonofabitch,” Mulder utters as he lurches forward towards John, one arm reaching for him and the other clenched in a fist. Monica flinches, jerking herself backwards and out of the line of fire as Scully rushes herself into Mulder’s chest, digging her heels into the linoleum. 

“None of that!” Scully yells as she pushes Mulder back a few steps. 

“He’s lied to us from the fucking beginning, Scully!” Mulder yells as he throws his hands in the air and turns away. “We can’t believe a damn thing that-”

“If you’d give us a fucking minute, we’ll tell you everything!” John yells back. 

“*Now* you will!” Mulder barks. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities to spill, John-”

“Why is it so important where I got the information from?” John asks. 

The feet of the table whine against the floor as Mulder slams his palms on the surface. “It’s the principle of the fact that you withheld it at all,” he says, his voice suddenly dangerously calm. 

“Please,” Monica says, her voice high pitched with pleading. “Mulder, Dana, just give me a second to explain everything. From the beginning.” 

Mulder huffs, then backs up to lean against the fridge, as Scully takes her place next to him and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Ten years ago, I was approached,” Monica says. 

“Approached by whom?” Mulder asks.

Monica fights the urge to look away in shame, forcing herself to maintain eye contact with Mulder. “CGB Spender. I was told that the world was going to need a division of people that were qualified and prepared to lead, once colonization was underway. To take charge. I was presented the opportunity to step up and take on one of those roles, as was John, while also ensuring that our lives would be spared.”

Scully’s eyebrows furrow as Mulder releases a laugh that sounds so forced that it borders on menacing. “I was offered the same bullshit, but had already mysteriously contracted anthrax. How’s that deal with the devil working out for ya?” he says to Monica, ignoring the rest of the eyes on him.

“Just hear her out, man,” John says. 

Mulder’s jaw muscles flex as he locks eyes with John. 

Monica continues. “Shortly after I accepted the position, I caught wind that there was a boy, a very special little boy, in the Project’s possession. It was William. I knew that John would refuse the offer of a position with The Project, but I needed to act fast and I didn’t see any other way…” 

Her eyes shine bright as Monica glances towards John. He nods at her, urging her to continue. 

“I disguised asking for his help to save William with a conversation about him joining us. I obtained what little information I could and passed it on to him, praying I was right. Hoping that he would do the right thing.” She pauses and a small smile spreads across her face. “And he did.” 

John turns his face away to hide the blush that creeps into cheeks. The insinuation that he is considered a good man feels bittersweet coming from her mouth. The same mouth that pursed the moment she slipped that simple piece of paper into his hands, the address written inside now etched into his mind forever.

Van de Kamp  
3194 Willow Rd.  
Chugwater, WY

The sudden urge to run outside and check on William overwhelms him as images of him as a hopeless little boy in that sterile room flash before his eyes. Such a fragile kid, barely older than a toddler, locked away in a hospital prison. In that moment, John vows to himself that he would sacrifice his life a million times to save that child. 

“Of course,” Monica continues, “I wanted to go with him. I wanted to run and protect William, but that wasn’t an option. I was under heavy surveillance, my every move was being watched and scrutinized. So, I did what I could to keep William safe. I found out any bits of information that might be pertinent, and passed them along when the opportunity presented itself.”

“Why are you here now, after all of this time?” Mulder asks. “Surely a sudden check of conscience isn’t enough to bring you all this way.”

“Mulder,” Scully mumbles and places her hand on his arm, and Mulder shrugs. 

Small ash particles flitter to the table as Monica runs her hand through her hair, and she swipes them away. She stares forward, not making eye contact with anyone as the words flow from her mouth like a raging river after a heavy rain. “I’ve been sent to your house by The Project. My exact whereabouts, as well as yours, are known and have been for quite some time. My reasoning for showing up seemingly out of the blue and unannounced - and, please, just hear me out - is because I was sent to bring your son back, but I was never going to. I cannot stress enough that I am not here to take your son. The only reason I agreed to the search and retrieval mission was so that I could get here to warn you.”

John tips his head back and closes his eyes as Scully gasps. No one notices as the reality of the truth weighs heavily on Scully’s shoulders, her knees buckling under the weight. That after all of these years, all of the sacrifices, she and Mulder are still just as powerless to stop Them from chasing after their son. 

Images of William locked away in a sterile room, strapped to a gurney, surrounded by a cluster of IV and EKG lines flash behind her eyelids, and she cringes. The mother in her is too terrified to know the reasoning behind his retrieval, but she can’t stop herself from asking, “Why?” 

Monica throws Scully an apologetic glance. “Even after all of these years, their reasons never change, Dana. They always justify their selfishness, proclaiming it’s for the greater good.”

“What does that even mean?” Scully asks.

“It means that I’m the first member they’ve sent for his retrieval,” Monica says, “but when I don’t return with him in my possession, I won’t be the last.”

“Oh my God,” Scully utters.

John kicks the toe of his boot against the floorboard under the cupboards. “Shit.”

“Are you wired? Mulder asks. “Has our house been bugged?” 

“All clean. No bugs, no wires,” Monica assures them. She holds her hands in the air, then removes her jacket and folds it over the back of the chair. “Dana can check me for a wire if you don’t believe me.”

Scully, still reeling, jerks at the sound of her name. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you want to check me for a wire?” Monica asks.

“No. No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Scully responds, and Monica settles herself back into her chair. 

“You sure about that?” Mulder asks, leaning into Scully. “We don’t know-”

“She wouldn’t have offered a search if she was wearing a wire, Mulder,” Scully says. 

“There’s no need to wire me,” Monica says, and Mulder, Scully, and John turn to look at her. She continues, “After all of this time, I’ve been able to prove my allegiance to The Project and Spender. They trust me, and I’m using that trust to do something good. I’m here to protect William, not to hurt him.”

“Why would you do that?” Scully asks. “Why now?”

“Not just now,” Monica reminds her. “Remember, I gave John-”

“But *why*?” Scully insists. 

“Because he’s your son,” Monica says simply. “I told you fifteen years ago that I would do anything to keep him safe, and I meant that.”

Mulder shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and slides his arm around Scully’s waist. He squeezes her gently when she doesn’t pull away. “You put yourself at serious risk by going to John with that information, and now with us, Monica.”

“And if Spender found out-” Scully adds.

“But he didn’t and he won’t,” Monica says. “None of that matters to me anyways, not anymore. It did at first, but once I found out that William’s life was at risk… all that mattered to me was his safety. I didn’t know where the two of you were at the time, I wasn’t cleared to that level of security then. So, I went to the next person that I knew would be willing to give up their life and disappear with him. I went to John.”

Mulder and Scully both turn to John, who’s remained silent this entire time. 

“Is that true?” Scully asks him.

John nods. “That’s the truth. All of it.” 

“The problem I have now, however,” Monica starts, and everyone in the room glares at her with various levels of alert on their face. “I don’t have anywhere to stay. I can’t go back.”

“Are you alone?” Scully asks, and mentally chastises herself for not asking that sooner. 

Monica nods. 

“Were you followed?” Scully asks. 

“No. I’m positive of it,” Monica replies. 

Scully feels Mulder’s arm tighten around her waist, knowing he is fully aware of and disagrees with what she’s about to say, but she replies, “You can stay here.”

“Can I talk to you?” Mulder asks Scully as he begins to pull her out of the kitchen. “In private.”

“Thank you,” they hear Monica call, and Mulder shoots a glance her way before wordlessly ushering Scully to their bedroom.

Xxx

“I don’t feel comfortable with her staying here,” Mulder says as they walk through the hallway towards their bedroom.

“Shh, Mulder, keep your voice down,” Scully says as she pulls him into their room and closes the door behind them. “They’ll hear you.”

“And on the topic of uninviting guests, I think John needs to go,” Mulder says as he begins to pace the space in front of their bed. Scully sits on the edge of the mattress, waiting for him to work out his frustration on the creaky floorboards. “I don’t trust either one of them.”

“They came clean,” she says. “And they have nowhere else to go.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says with a shake of his head. “They both lied, John lied to you Scully.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

Mulder stops mid-stride and glares at her. “Don’t you dare compare them to us. That’s like comparing...uh-”

“Apples to oranges?” she offers with a tilt of her head.

“Sure,” he says as he spins on his heels and begins the same path in front of the bed again. 

“Mulder,” she says, struggling to keep her voice soft and even, “the truth is out. It may have taken a few days-”

“A few days? I can’t believe you’re defending them. Scully, they’ve known about all of this for *years* and didn’t say anything. We are his parents, and not once did they try to contact us-”

“It wasn’t safe!” Scully yells as she stands up, then covers her mouth with her hand, startled by the loudness of her own voice. “Yes,” she says, lowering her tone, “they could have come forward with the information earlier, and for that I understand and share your frustration. But they saved our son, Mulder. For that we owe them our gratitude.”

Mulder’s posture decompresses, his shoulders slumping as his hands hang loosely at his sides. “You’re right,” he says after a beat. “I know you’re right, Scully, but I’m not done being mad.” 

A smile tweaks at the corners of Scully’s mouth, but she says nothing. 

“I should have punched that sonofabitch when I had the chance,” Mulder utters as he lowers himself to the floor and leans back against the side of the bed. He sighs heavily, expelling his frustration in one long whoosh, as Scully sits beside him, and he rests his hand atop of her knee. “Why didn’t you tell me that she came to see you?”

“Well, at first there just wasn’t time,” she says. “Your health was my priority, and my meeting with Monica was the last thing on my mind.”

“That was days ago,” Mulder says. 

“It was.”

“You didn’t think-”

Scully lays her hand on top of his and squeezes his fingers. “Does it really matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t, but you kept it from me.”

“I considered Monica an ally, Mulder. A friend,” she nearly whispers. “I guess a small part of me didn’t want to believe that she could do that to us.”

Mulder rests his cheek atop the crown of her head. “If you didn’t speak it out loud then it wouldn’t be real?” 

“Something like that.” 

Mulder hums in response. “Well, maybe it’s not so black and white. Like you said, Scully. They both had their reasons, and William’s safety took priority.”

Scully chuckles. “Now who’s defending them?”

Xxx

John still leans against the wall with his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching as Monica traces the grain of the wooden table with the tip of her finger. She works slowly along the length of the dark line with a cautious touch, as if caressing a lover for the first time. For a quick moment, under the yellow glow of the kitchen light, he’s able to see the vague silhouette of the woman he used to call his, a shadow of the woman he would have laid his life on the line for. 

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and allows his mind to wander to a decade before, a time much more simple. He can still hear her breathlessly call his name as he hovered over her, their bodies slick with sweat as she clenched the pillow above her head. He can smell her as he dipped his face into the space between her shoulder and her neck, he can still taste her…

“John,” Monica says, startling him out of his reverie. 

His eyes regain focus and take in the sight of her sitting before him.

“I called your name twice. You with me?” she asks.

He grunts as the Monica from his memory smears and is replaced with the woman who sits at the table alone, her jacket still streaked with the ash remnants of burned bodies and her face still etched with her betrayal. Anger rises in the back of his throat like bile, burning his esophagus as he swallows it down. “I’m here.”

“I’m really proud of you, John-”

He chuffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Will you sit with me, please?”

“Monica-”

“Please?” she asks with more urgency. 

He tips his head to the side and watches as she pulls the chair adjacent to her out a few inches. After a moment, he jerks the chair directly across from her from under the table, and sits. 

Monica smiles. “What you did all those years ago was selfless. And I know that the choices I made were selfish, that I sided with the wrong team for survival,” she says. “The fact that William was in danger, and that I did what I could to help doesn’t rectify that.” 

John leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “You helped save the kid’s life. That counts for something, Mon.”

Monica reaches across the table and takes John’s hands in hers, then sighs when he immediately pulls away and tucks his hands under the table. “Does it?” she asks as she flexes and fists her fingers, working the rejection out of them. “I thought you understood.”

“Understanding and agreeing are two different things,” he says. “No matter how hard I try to understand, I can’t agree with your choice. Understanding won’t change how I feel about you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” 

He doesn’t answer. She leans back in her chair and rakes her eyes over the man sitting across from her, allowing herself to mentally take in his appearance for the first time since she’s arrived. He’s aged in the years since she left him, the deep lines around his tired eyes telling the story of many long nights without sleep. His shoulders slump like a man who doesn’t have much fight left in him, what little he has is left hidden behind a greying beard. Deep down, she thinks, buried beneath this haggard facade, must be the man that loved her. “And how do you feel about me?”

John holds her gaze for a long moment before answering. “I don’t. I said goodbye to the woman I loved a long time ago. I don’t know who this,” he says gesturing to her, “even is.” 

Monica opens her mouth to respond, but the chair’s feet squeak angrily against the linoleum as he shoves away from the table, drowning out the call of his name as he walks out of the room. She wants to follow him, to grab his shoulders and shake understanding into him, but instead she rests her elbows on the table’s surface and covers her face with her hands. 

“Everything ok in here?” she hears Mulder ask. 

Monica lifts her head and peers at Mulder over the tips of her fingers as he crosses to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. She assumes he’s not expecting an answer if he caught even the tail end of her conversation with John, and she makes no move to provide one. She watches as Mulder takes John’s seat at the opposite end of the table, pours each glass half full, then slides one across the table towards her. 

“Scully will be down in a minute,” he says before taking a long sip. Monica keeps her eyes trained on the ex-agent across from her as she follows suit, enjoying the burn of the liquor sliding down her throat and settling in her belly. Bruising on his face aside, the last decade appears to have been kinder to Mulder, she thinks. Though, knowing some of what John experienced, that might not be saying much in Mulder’s favor. 

A younger Mulder and Scully flash before her eyes, faces bright with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. The last night she saw them was to be their final goodbye, everyone embarking on their own journey, most to an unfamiliar destination. Skinner to remain Assistant Director, Mulder and Scully into hiding, Kersh to resign, and her and John to new assignments. As open minded as she was, the Monica Reyes from fifteen years ago would have never believed that this was what her life would become. A fucking disaster. 

“Thank you,” she says into her glass, and then swallows the remaining scotch. 

Mulder takes and refills the tumbler. “For the booze?” he asks.

Monica nods, and accepts the glass as he slides it back to her. 

“Thank you,” he says in response. 

Monica’s eyebrows furrow. “For what?”

Mulder purses his lips and inhales deeply. “William.”

Behind her, the front door opens and shuts, and suddenly a steady rain of footsteps seems to fall from all directions. A gentle pitter-patter from the stairs, the heavy thudding of a wider gait across the living room, the whining of floorboards directly behind her. 

“We’re gonna need more scotch,” Mulder says as Skinner, William, Scully, and John enter the kitchen. Skinner walks around the table to the cabinet above the stove, pulling out another 3 glasses and setting them next to the bottle of liquor, as John seats himself between Mulder and Monica. Mulder shakes off the shudder that ripples through him, pretending not to notice the tension that settles in the room and the fact that Monica refuses to look at John. 

“I, uh, I’m going to bed,” William announces from the doorway. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and leans into the door jamb. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder watches as Scully crosses to their son and wraps him in her arms for a quick embrace, and whispers something in his ear. It’s a simple gesture of love from mother to son that no one outside of this house would question, but Mulder’s chest tightens at the sight of it, at seeing his son return his mother’s hug with a nod. 

“Daggoo! Come on boy,” Will calls as he pulls away from Scully. “You’re sleeping with me and Papa tonight.” 

“You keep that dog on the floor,” John says.

William swoops Daggoo into his arms and smiles. “G’night.”

“So, Walter,” John says loudly, changing the subject upon realizing he’s already lost that fight, “where the hell have you been the last few years? We’ve spent two days together, and know everyone else’s story. What’s yours?”

“I think I’m the only government employee in this room who didn’t bail on The Bureau,” Skinner says with a laugh. 

“Hey, we came back,” Mulder says, gesturing with his thumb to Scully. Scully pours everyone a bit of liquor, then divvies up the glasses and hums in response. 

“So, nothing but the same ‘ol, same ol’?” John asks. 

“You need to live a little, Skinman,” Mulder adds. “All work and no play…”

“Mulder,” Scully warns gently as she pulls a chair up next to him and seats herself. 

“It hasn’t been *all* work,” Skinner says takes an open seat, and brings his glass to his lips. “And Mulder, if you call me Skinman one more time-”

Everyone laughs.

“-I swear to God, I’m gonna kick your spooky ass,” Skinner finishes. 

With a wide smile, Mulder holds his hands up in defeat. “What’s her name?” 

“Sheila,” Skinner answers. “Sheila Brooks.”

Scully’s eyebrows rise. “From accounting?”

Skinner nods once. “That’s her.”

“I had no idea,” Scully says. “Why didn’t you bring her with you?” 

“I haven’t heard from her since everything started. The last time time we spoke, she wasn’t feeling well and was heading to the hospital for treatment. I told her I would meet her there, but traffic was terrible. By the time I arrived, I couldn’t find her,” Skinner says before taking a sip of his scotch. “I overheard someone say Mulder’s name, and found you instead. ”

“Maybe she went to a different hospital,” John suggests. 

Skinner shakes his head. “No, she said she was heading to Our Lady of Sorrows. She was getting ready to walk through the doors as we were hanging up.” 

Mulder, Scully, and John pass glances to each other, remembering vividly the chaos that took place there that night. The hallways filled wall to wall with the sick, the overwhelming screaming and crying of those in need, the death around every corner. The truth of Sheila’s fate rolls in like a dense raincloud and hangs heavily above them. Monica brushes at a smear of ash on the arm of her jacket.

“Everyone has their Sheila,” Monica says, her voice slicing through the silence. “Everyone’s lost someone important, and all we can do now is try and survive.”

Mulder and Scully’s eyes meet for a moment, the blue of hers bright with the knowing of how close she had come to Skinner’s story becoming her own, his hazel murky with the fate he was able to narrowly avoid.

“The Virus, an army of supersoldiers, the coming war,” Mulder says. “I’m not even sure that the strongest can survive all of that.”

“Army of supersoldiers?” Monica asks. 

Mulder nods and lightly thumps his fist on the table. “Before we know it, we’ll be overrun by them, I’m sure.”

Monica’s brows furrow as she shakes her head. “No, there isn’t an army.”

“There will be,” Mulder clarifies. 

“That’s why those with implanted chips were summoned,” Scully adds. 

“You…” Monica’s eyes grow wide and she leans back in her chair. “You have it all wrong. The abductees, those with government chips, they weren’t summoned to be part of an army.”

“Then why was I called?” Scully asks. “What was the purpose?”

“And the supersoldiers,” Mulder adds. 

“The supersoldiers,” Monica starts, “are being used to round up those that survived the virus.”

“A second phase,” Mulder says. 

Monica nods. “Part two of the Extermination Program. There’s five percent of the population that doesn’t require the vaccine to survive, and the supersoldiers are programmed to eliminate those that remain.”

“Jesus Christ,” John utters. He reaches for the bottle of scotch and refills his glass. Skinner takes the bottle from him and does the same. 

“Is there a third phase?” Scully asks.

Monica bites at her bottom lip as she looks at the faces around her. The faces of people she cared about once upon a time, friends she still swears to protect. The answer to Scully’s question catches in her throat.

“Monica?” Scully asks, and then repeats, “Is there a third phase?”

“Part three, or the third phase, was the official termination of the Abductee Program,” Monica replies, finally meeting Scully’s eyes. “The experiment proved to be a failure, and was no longer needed. I suppose every experiment must come to an end at some point, regardless of its success,” she says, and then sighs. “They weren’t summoning past abductees to build an army, Dana, but rather to dispose of them. Of you.”

“Like a lab rat,” Scully whispers. 

Mulder reaches for Scully’s hand and holds it tight. Scully shifts her gaze over the men at the table as she squeezes Mulder’s fingers, their battle wounds from the night before worn proudly, yet a stark contrast to the acute sadness that haunts their eyes. 

“But you obviously avoided it,” Monica adds. “Much thanks to them, judging by the shape the three of ‘em are in.”

“She put up a hell of a fight,” Skinner says as he rubs the sore spot on his chest. 

“Didn’t know she had it in her,” John quips.

“I’m not surprised. They were assured that the signal was strong enough that it only needed to be sent the one time,” Monica says. “They assumed it would be a great success.”

“Those narcissistic bastards would assume that,” Mulder responds. “Are They aware that Scully survived?”

“I don’t believe so,” Monica answers with a shake of her head. 

“So, now what?” Skinner asks. “A fourth phase we aren’t aware of?”

“Now They just sit back and wait. There are already mass grave sites surrounding each major city around the world, mounds of bodies waiting to be cremated,” Monica explains. “In all of the panic and uncertainty surrounding The Trojan Virus, the dead are being burned by the thousands in hopes of impeding the spreading of any diseases and maintaining whatever safe zones that are in place. We have already lost millions of men, women, and children.”

At the mention of children, Scully’s eyes shift to the stairs that lead to her son sleeping safely in their guest bedroom. 

“He’s ok,” Mulder says softly. 

“But for how long?” Scully asks. “Monica, what do they want with our son? Where does he fit into all of this?”

“Originally it was to test the bounds of his supernatural biology,” she replies. “Experiments were run and found to be successful in matters of healing.”

“Spender,” Mulder says with a grimace. 

Monica nods. “William is the first of his kind, a miracle that no matter how hard they tried, could not be recreated, so a large amount of testing was required.”

“But I took him before their remaining experiments could be completed,” John adds. 

“Exactly,” Monica says. “And with the final plans coming to fruition-”

“They want to finish what they started,” Mulder finishes for her. 

“I’ll take a bullet before letting that black-lunged sonofabitch get his hands on William again,” Skinner says, slapping his hand on the table.

“Yeah, over my cold, dead body,” John says. “We all need to run.”

“And go where?” Scully asks with a lame shrug of her shoulders. “Where in the world can we hide him to keep him safe? He isn’t safe anywhere.”

“Not as long as Spender is alive and breathing,” Monica adds. “And he’ll likely be gone soon, anyway. I’m not positive, but I think he has plans to flee.” 

“Where would he go?” Mulder asks.

Monica shrugs. “I didn’t receive an invitation.”

Mulder stands and walks to the opposite side of the kitchen, leaving everyone around the table and their silence behind him. His voice is hushed, just above a whisper when he finally speaks. “Spender needs to die.”

John laughs. “How do you kill a man that can’t be killed? That piece of shit has died multiple times, only to rise again from the dead. He’s like Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers from those horror movies, the villain that doesn’t die.”

“He’s just a man,” Mulder says. “He’s not Jesus or God, as much as he likes to think himself as one. He’s just a man with connections.”

“I’m thinking most of his connections have been severed, thanks to this virus,” Skinner says. 

“I’ll sever the last one,” Mulder says, avoiding Scully’s piercing gaze. 

“What do you think you’re going to do, Mulder?” John asks. “Just walk into wherever he is and shoot him? There will be security covering the place, he’ll be surrounded.”

“No, it’s nearly empty,” Monica interjects. “Skinner is right, most of his thugs died off from the virus, or were exterminated.”

“Where is he staying?” Mulder asks Monica. 

“Same place as before,” she replies. 

“Mulder, stop this,” Scully says. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Absurd? Scully, this is exactly what needs to happen,” Mulder says. “You know it does.”

Scully shoves her chair from behind her and crosses towards Mulder. He doesn’t back away when she closes the distance between them and gets in his face. “You cannot seriously be considering this. You don’t know what you’ll be walking into-”

“It’s done, Scully,” Mulder says. “There’s no other way.”

“Scully, he’s right,” Skinner says. She spins on her heels and glares at Skinner as he continues. “Spender needs to be stopped. So many innocent lives have been lost because of his greed, his need for power. There *isn’t* a choice in the matter, regardless of how angry you are or how much you don’t agree.” 

John looks away as Scully’s jaw drops, and Skinner crosses the few feet to her. 

“You can be mad if you want, Dana,” Skinner says, “but it’s not changing the outcome.”

Scully recoils and takes a step back from Skinner, a look of disgust streaks across her face as she turns to look at Mulder, then John, then Monica. They all stare back at her, their eyes all saying what they don’t have the courage to vocalize: they agree. 

Scully turns on her heels and storms up the stairs to her bedroom. 

Xxxx

It’s two hours later and the room is dark when Mulder tip-toes into their bedroom, side-stepping the creaky floorboard as he closes the door behind him. If it weren’t for the stench of scotch oozing from his pores, he’s sure he could pass a field sobriety test without a problem. Turns out, planning the death of your sociopathic biological father can be quite a sobering experience, he thinks. He’s never felt more focused or at peace in his entire life. 

“I’m awake,” Scully says, and Mulder jumps at the sound of her voice. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, her form in their bed slowly begins to take shape. She lay on her back in the center of the bed, the blankets pulled to her waist as she stares at the ceiling. The determination he felt walking into the room wavers slightly as the anger rolls off of her in waves, each rush stronger than the last. 

“Sorry,” Mulder says. His jeans fall to the floor with a flick of his thumb, and his t-shirt is quick to join the heap, leaving him nearly naked in his boxer briefs. He straightens his back before crossing towards her, repositioning his resolve on his squared shoulders like plated armor before heading into battle. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she says. “How am I supposed to sleep, Mulder, when I know that you’re downstairs plotting...”

Mulder eases his weight down on the edge of the bed, cautiously as if thrusting his weight down too quickly would send her over the edge. “Scully, listen-”

“No, Mulder, *you* listen,” Scully whispers harshly as she turns to her side and props herself up on her elbow. With her other hand, she grips his arm and forces him to turn and look at her. “What you’re planning, it’s irrational. Impulsive. There’s no way you’ll make it out of there alive.”

Mulder purses his lips and nods once. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“His life isn’t worth giving up yours!” she says as her fingers tightens on his arm, but he doesn’t flinch when her nails dig into his skin. “I cannot believe that you’re seriously considering this!” 

“For our son,” Mulder says, his eyes plead as his voice exudes a calmness. “Scully, I’m doing this for him. It’s what I should have done a long time ago.”

Scully huffs. “Mulder, our son is here, he’s sleeping in the other room. Now is not the time to be a martyr.”

Mulder leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Don’t,” Scully nearly spits, and jerks herself across the bed and out of his reach. “Don’t you think for one second that you can just kiss me and make this better.”

“That’s not-,” Mulder starts. “I wasn’t-”

“You can’t do this again, Mulder,” Scully says and he turns away from her. “*I* can’t do this again. I can’t just sit idly by this time and watch you walk out of my life, *our* lives, and be left to wonder if you’re going to come back. I won’t pick out another headstone for you, Mulder.” 

Her words lash at his back like the sharp crack of a whip, and he leans forward gripping the edge of the mattress, allowing the guilt of every goodbye to seep from the fresh wounds. “Scully,” he says, “Spender has been behind every loss we have felt since the first day you stepped into my basement office. This needs to end.”

He feels the jostling of the mattress as she crawls across the bed, and sighs under her touch when she places her hand in the middle of his back. 

“Then let them go,” she insists. “Let Skinner and John and Monica stop him.”

“I can’t,” he whispers to the floor. “This is my fate, Scully. It ends with me.”

“I don’t believe that,” she says with a shake of her head. She blinks back the tears that burn along her lashes. “This is a choice, Mulder!”

She gasps as Mulder turns to her suddenly and takes her face in his hands, brushing away the tears as they begin to stream down her face with his thumbs. His eyes bore into hers, wordlessly pleading for her to understand. “And it’s mine to make.”

“Then choose to stay, Mulder,” she says. Her hands grip his forearms. “Not for you, or William, or the sake of the world, but for me. For once, Mulder, choose me.”

“Scully-”

“I’m begging you,” she says, each word rushing from her mouth quicker than the last. “Is- is that what you’ve needed all these months, for me to beg you to come back to me? Well, here I am, Mulder-” 

Scully rushes from the bed and settles onto her knees between his legs. 

“I’m pleading with you, Mulder. Choose me, and stay.” She reaches up between them, placing her hands on the sides of his face, and pulls him so close that their noses are touching. “Choose me, Mulder.”

Moonlight streams through the bedroom window, illuminating the torment in his eyes in glittering streaks of silver. His breath is hot against her face, the words caught in his throat with each warm puff of air across her lips. 

“Scully,” he sighs, her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer to the highest of deities. 

“Please,” she whispers, allowing her lips to brush across his, their soft skin mingling in shared despondency. She feels the shiver that races through him, the way his fingers tighten against her face. Her eyes search his, seeking resolution as she watches tears gather behind his downturned lashes. Stay or go. 

Before he can speak his choice, she seals her mouth over his, and swallows the plea that remains behind her lips. Their tongues touch, meeting in the middle with a heated glide and he sighs into her mouth, sagging into her as she wraps her arms around his neck. She hugs him to her tight, guarding them from the acknowledgement that this could be the last time she feels him pressed to her like this, the last time she’ll fall asleep beside him, kiss him, touch him. 

As if sensing her need, he lifts her effortlessly from the floor, holding her to his chest as she wraps her legs around his hips. Lips unbreaking, she whimpers into his mouth, rolling her hips as the cool satin of her panties brushes against his stomach. His hold is crushing, desperation ripples off of him in waves as his hold robs the air from her lungs. 

“I need you, Fox,” she whispers through trembling lips. 

“You have me.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but he’s quick to catch it in its path, soft and warm as he erases her fears with each swipe of his lips. She lifts her chin to the ceiling with a shaky sigh, tightening the hold around his neck as he begins his slow assault down the side of her face. There’s a flurry of sensation against the sensitive flesh of her neck: the heat from his mouth, the sharp prickle of his beard. He presses his teeth into her, sharp and jolting, and she hisses at the violent shiver that races through her, pulling at his hair to force his mouth back to her. 

Squeezing the flesh of her ass, he grunts into her mouth as their tongues duel for control, slippery and hot as their lips move over each other. She grinds her center against his bare stomach, the cool evening air contrasting against the heat between her legs. His fingers dig into her thighs with every swipe of her core, and his erection eagerly prods her behind as it struggles for purchase in the confines of his boxers. 

With a turn, her back sinks into the softness of the duvet, but her arms and legs refuse to release their hold around him. He groans as he settles between her legs, and she arches up to meet the hardness that lies trapped between them. His mouth is hot against her skin, achingly soft as he savors each inch of exposed skin. 

His hand skirts under the hem of his shirt she’s claimed as her own, his palm hot against her ribs, trembling as it pauses below her breast. Her nipples harden in anticipation, her panties dampening as his wandering hand shifts course and moves down her belly. Her skin quivers under his touch as his fingertips toy along the satin trim that lines her lower abdomen. 

He lowers his face towards her, and their lips hover as his fingers inch lower, and lower. Her breath hitches. But then his fingers are there, and she whimpers as she feels them slip between the slickened flesh of her core. Covering her mouth with his, their moans are lost in each other with an intensity she hasn’t felt from him in more years than she can remember. 

Her arousal is irrefutable, pulsating through her veins as it flows boldly inside of her, overshadowing the sting of her heartbreak. She feels feverish, every inch of her aching for more of him as he presses his weight into her, moving his fingers in and out of her as he holds her eyes, unwilling to look away. Her eyelids flutter as he strokes the very core of her, the curling of his fingers to pull a moan from her lips. 

“Look at me,” he demands in a low rumble, increasing the pressure of his fingers as they build her up with a frenzied pulse. She meets his eyes, reaching between them to grip his wrist. His movements slow at her touch, and her hips arch of their volition, desperate for more. 

With a pull of his wrist, his fingers slip out of her, and she pulls her panties down her legs, kicking them off the side of the bed before draping her leg over him and rolling him to his back. 

Her heart beats solidly behind her ribcage at the sight of him beneath her, her legs squeezing the sides of his hips as if holding him in place will ensure his presence not only the following morning, but each day succeeding. Stay, her hands plead as she braces them against the tense muscles of his stomach, her fingertips finding their place as she settles along the hardened length of him. He groans as she presses against him, and the slide of his hands up her thighs leave trails of goosebumps on her skin.

His hips lift, and she meets his thrust with an equal roll of her own, swiping the length of him between her slick folds, separated only by the thin layer of cotton that still restricts him. 

His hands move over her, and she covers them with her own as he relearns the curves and valleys of her body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. A shiver rushes over her when he reaches for the hem of her shirt, but she stills his hands and finishes the job for him, pulling it over her head. Her hair falls in amber curtains over her face, but she shakes them away, dropping her arms and leaving the discarded shirt at her side. 

She’s bare before him, and her nipples harden under his heady gaze. He drinks her in, his gaze roaming over the expanse of her body like he did their first time all those years ago. His hazel eyes darken as his fingertips press into her thighs, his jaw muscles clenching with each quickened breath. 

And just like that she remembers what it feels like to be worshipped by Fox Mulder. 

He leans forward and closes his mouth around her nipple, sucking on the aching peak, and she throws her head back, her hair tickling the skin between her shoulderblades. Her hips rock into his lap, and she feels the vibration of his groan reverberate through her breast. She drops forward and sighs into his hair, hissing at the sensation of his teeth worrying the tip of one nipple while his fingers roll and twist with the other. 

She threads her fingers through his hair, damp from his feral intensity as he savors the taste of any skin he can lay his mouth on. His tongue dips into the hollow space between her collarbones, grazes along the valley between her breasts. He moans when she leans back on her hands and arches into him, offering herself to his touch. Breasts tilted towards the ceiling, she’s lost in the sensation of his mouth on her skin, cursing herself for ever thinking that she could live without this kind of devotion. 

His hands spread along her lower back and he eases her towards him, bringing her chest flush against his, the tips of their noses touching. Stay, her arms plead as she wraps them around his neck. 

She grinds against him, the rocking of her hips freeing his erection from the band of his boxers. Her tongue swipes across his lips, tasting his gasp when she brushes her heated center over the tip. Gaze unyielding, she lifts her hips and he pushes the offending garment down his legs.

She reaches for his turgid length that stands trapped between their bodies, taking him into her hand, stroking him from root to tip. She revels at the velvet rigidity, the weight of it in her palm, and he groans under her touch. The bond between their eyes is broken as they both look down between them. Their foreheads rest against each other, glistening with sweat as they each watch her hand’s maneuver, sharp gasps filling the space between them. 

She rises on her knees and locks her gaze with his, forcing her eyes to stay open as she slides down on him, the heat of him filling her with each delicious inch. The muscles of his jaw twitch as he holds back, allowing her to set the pace, granting her the control she so desperately needs. Her name comes as a hushed sigh once she takes all of him in, his eyes slipping shut as she rises again and thrusts down onto him. 

She gasps as his fingers grip her hips, his thighs betraying him as he meets her descent, pushing deeper inside of her, building the delicious friction between her legs. The room is silent, save for the heavy pants of their breathing, so unlike either of them to remain so quiet in their shared pleasure. But there’s something about the way she’s looking down at him that keeps him quiet, keeps him from reaching between them and forcing the sounds he knows she’s capable of. For as much as he burns with each slow rock of her hips, he knows her intention, and the sting of guilt prickles in his chest. 

Stay, her eyes plead.

His arms wrap around her waist, holding her tight as he rolls their bodies, pressing her back into the mattress. Her lips tremble as he drops his face to her shoulder, peppering his lips across every inch of fevered skin he can reach. She shivers under him, wrapping her leg around his hips as he continues to move inside of her. 

“It’s you, Scully,” he whispers before trailing his tongue around her earlobe, nipping at the tender spot just below it. “My choice will always be you.” 

He swears he can feel the rush of relief flood through her, but he can’t bring himself to explain to her that there was never a choice to be made. That this time, it had been made for him. Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them away as her arms wrap around him, trembling beneath him as he continues to move in and out of her. She’s slick and hot around him, and he lets go, losing himself within her. 

Her lips taste of salt, wet and swollen, and their tongues swirl in a hungry mesh. She pulls away with a groan, and meets his downward thrust with a lift of her hips. His hands frame around her head, his forearms bearing his weight as he shifts the angle and penetrates her again. She moans when he hits it, stroking back and forth over the burning spot that lives deep inside of her. Her nails dig into his back, and he groans at the stirring pain of it, but her throaty gasps fill his ears, enticing him to drive into her faster, harder. 

He pushes her arms above her head, linking her hands with his own. Body to body they lay pressed together as his hips drive into her, skin slapping as the mattress moves with the force of their thrusts. Heavy-eyed and flushed, she’s transformed under him, letting herself go as she relinquishes her fight for control.

“Fuck,” he groans into her chest, feeling his release build low in his belly. He looks between them, able to see their bodies moving together in what little light streams into the room. Glistening with her arousal, he watches himself move in and out of her, interrupted only by the incoherent gasps and whimpers she breathes into his hair.

“Oh, God,” she cries, gripping his hands in a vice hold. Her climax grows within her chest, evolving with each thrust. 

“Let it happen,” he encourages, rolling his hips and brushing his pelvic bone across her clit. She shakes her head with a bite of her lip, keeping her release at bay even as her hips continue the rhythm they’ve built together. Her legs tremble around his ribs, and he buries his face into her neck, thrusting harder, faster. 

“Come on, Scully,” he growls into her skin, “let go.” And for a moment they seem suspended in their shared euphoria, sparks of pleasure hanging just out of their reach as they let it climb and climb. But finally the tether breaks, and she pulls her hands free of his grip, holding him to her as she arches under him. She ripples and contracts around him as he follows her down, willing to suffocate himself in the space between her shoulder and neck if it means being held like this for just a moment longer. 

As the explosion of their orgasms fades to glittering sparks, reality looms around the peripheral edge like a predator hidden beneath the cloak of night, stalking in wait with its unpredictable nature. Her rapidly beating heart slows as doubt creeps in, and she hides the rising emotion in the skin of his neck, locking her ankles around his body as she smoothes her hands down his back.

He tries to roll away, but she grips him harder, shaking her head. 

“Stay,” she whispers, turning to kiss his neck. “Stay in me just a little longer.” 

He lifts his head from her shoulder and smoothes the hair from her face, pressing his lips tenderly to her forehead. “I’m here,” he says, smoothing the emotion from her face with his hands, attempting to soothe her fears with his lips. “I’m here…” 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

\----

Air rushes past her as she falls deeper and deeper, her hair whipping at her face as gravity pulls her further into the darkness. She feels weightless, her arms and legs seem to float freely as she cascades further into the endless depths, like a free-falling bullet after being shot into the night, before she’s jerked to a standstill. Miraculously unhurt and suspended in mid-air, she spins slowly, taking in her surroundings. 

Her jaw drops in awe as her eyes scale the rock wall encircling her, the burnt orange and crimson red surface smooth with the wearing of time, glistening with dampness. The cavernous tunnel seems to continue for miles above her, and as she shifts to look below, she feels the blood drain from her face. It appears bottomless, the walls extending as far as the eye can see. Her hands grapple around her abdomen, searching for the security of a harness that isn’t there. 

“Oh my God,” she hears herself exclaim, panic searing through her as her hands pat desperately along her torso. Suddenly, her hands grasp a thick rope that is wound around her waist, its rough texture like sandpaper beneath her fingertips, and she sighs with relief. 

“Scully.”

She turns towards the sound of his voice and Mulder is next to her. He dangles a few feet away, a much skimpier rope tied just once around his waist, much too thin to properly hold his weight. He’s so calm, she thinks and her brows furrow in confusion. 

“Mulder, we have to get out of here,” she says. 

He tilts his head to the side and a smile spreads across his face. “What are you doing here, Scully? You’re not supposed to be here.”

Something below her beckons her attention, daring her to look down, and when she finally does, she gasps. Hundreds, thousands of snakes slither beneath them, their earthy stench floating upwards with each roll of their masses. Her eyes widen as she watches them multiply rapidly, the tangle of them growing with each second that passes. 

“Oh my god, Mulder, we have to climb.”

He hangs idly before her, the look on his face serene as he watches her. What sounds like a gunshot resounds around them, and she knows before she sees that a thread of his rope has snapped. 

“Climb, Mulder!” she tries to yell, but her voice comes out as a whisper. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says.

Another thread snaps, and he drops an inch.

Below them the snakes continue to multiply, slipping and sliding over each other, rolling like the waves of the ocean. She thrusts her arm out, gripping her own taut rope as she leans in his direction, but he’s just beyond her reach. 

“Take my hand,” she groans as she attempts to swing herself towards him. But she’s stuck in place, unable to sway. Her rope has gone completely stiff. “Swing, grab my hand!”

She watches as another thread snaps, the frayed end unraveling and tumbling to the growing pit of snakes below. Then another. 

A terror induced scream rips from her chest as she reaches for him again, and he finally meets her halfway, taking her hand. He pulls himself to her with ease, and she grips his arms. The tip of his nose touches hers as he brushes a piece of hair from her face and presses his lips to hers. 

“I chose this,” he whispers.

The final threads break, and he lets go. 

“Mulder,” Scully yelps as she sits up in bed, her eyes wild as she surveys her surroundings. Instead of the cavernous holes and walls of rock of her nightmare, she’s relieved to see her familiar bedroom furnishings. Gone is the musky, pungent odor as she inhales deeply through her nose and holds her breath, willing her racing heart to slow to a normal pace. She closes her eyes and exhales through the ‘o’ of her lips. 

Her fingers skim along his vacant side of the bed, running the length from his pillow down to the sheets, and they’re cool to the touch. The remnants of sleep that haze around the edges of her vision quickly fade beneath the crash of thunder outside, and Scully collapses back into her pillow.

Out of the corner of her eye something catches her attention. She shifts her gaze and sees a folded piece of paper perched atop her nightstand, standing tall and blunt in front of the lamp. An ache pangs in her belly at the sight of it, growing sharper as she inches her hand towards the tented note. Just as it’s within reach of her outstretched fingers, she hesitates and pulls her hand away, as if it might burn her, searing her fingertips. 

She turns to her side and pulls the blanket to her chin, guarding herself from a chill that rushes across her skin, telling herself that she’s cold from the drafty house and not terrified of the note that sits just a mere foot from her face. She tries to force herself to listen for any indication of movement throughout the house, but gets lost in the sound of rain pelting above her. Because rain isn’t just the sound of drops on the roof, or the pitter-patter of water collecting into puddles on the pavement. 

It’s huddling in a dark motel room, listening to stories of the past and confessing secrets under the glow of a candle. It’s the midnight tinkling on the roof of the car when she wakes from a nap in the middle of a stakeout, and he let her sleep because she was utterly exhausted. It’s the ambient noise behind the breathing of her loved one sleeping next to her, his hand gripping her hip because he doesn’t want her to sneak out in the middle of the night. It’s the pelting on the bedroom window, encouraging them to stay home for the day, calling in sick that morning to spend the day together in bed. 

But this rain is different. 

It’s the universe weeping over the lives that have been lost, and pitying the poor souls left behind. It’s God cleansing the world of evil, washing away the sins of mankind, and taking Mulder right along with it. 

“O lamb of God,” she whispers, “who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.”

But somewhere between the virus and wiping the slate clean, God forgot that Scully is not Noah, and didn’t provide her with an ark. She’s just a woman who can’t seem to take her eyes off of the note in front of her, can’t bear to read whatever words are scribbled beneath its folds. The two-by-two holds true in this version of the fable, she realizes, as she’s always been made to choose between the two loves of her life: Mulder or William. And this time Mulder has made the choice for her. 

“O lamb of God,” her voice cracks but she speaks through it, “who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.” 

A faux wave of courage rushes through her and she thrusts her hand out and grips the paper. She doesn’t hesitate as she opens it, knowing if she does that she will return to her cowardly state and drop it back on her nightstand. Her eyes flood with tears, blurring his writing, and she blinks rapidly clear them. 

In order for a new beginning, there must come an ending first. Don’t give up.

Love,  
M

“Oh, Mulder,” she cries, releasing the sob that has been building within her, and hugs the note to her chest. Hot tears stream down her face, soaking her pillow as she pulls herself into the fetal position. 

He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, repeats over and over in her head. She turns her face into her pillow to muffle a wail, one she’s been swallowing for days, weeks, months, as she finally allows it to vibrate up her chest and pour from her mouth. 

“O lamb of God,” she prays through gritted teeth, and then hiccups.

“Who t-takes away the sins... of the world.” She stifles another sob and inhales sharply, forcing herself to continue. 

“Grant us thy peace.” 

Deep down she knew this was how it would end. But she didn’t get to say goodbye. 

“Amen.”

\---

CALDWELL, NC

Mulder has never been so thankful for folded gas station maps and two-lane backroads as the usual three hour drive to North Carolina pushes slowly into its fourth. Skinner has expertly avoided congested interstates, weaving the SUV along the outskirts of each closed off city, steering clear of barricades and any military check-points that may still be in operation, but the drive stretches on. 

Mindless chatter died after the first hour, and with a soothing melody of static on an endless loop on each radio station, the drive has fallen silent. Nerves that sparked and buzzed like an electric current have subsided into an eerie air of acceptance. Mulder passes a glance at Skinner who taps his thumbs against the steering wheel to a beat that only he can hear, and shifts to the side as he feels a foot shoved into the back of his seat, a sleeping Monica tossing and turning in the backseat. 

“Probably the first good sleep she’s had in ages,” Skinner says.

A hum is the only response Mulder can seem to muster before he turns his gaze to the passing landscape out of his window and thinks back to earlier in the morning. Just as the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, an angry thunderstorm had begun to roll in. The dark clouds were menacing and churning with turmoil, swallowing whatever light daybreak had come to offer, draping the house under a cloak of gloom.

The mattress drooped under his weight as he sat in the same spot he had just occupied hours before, only this time the storm was outside and not sweeping over him in raging waves with Scully at the center of it. The house shook slightly as thunder rumbled overhead, and he sat there watching her sleep. 

Her eyelashes fluttered and her fingers twitched against his hand as she slept, and he fought the urge to wake her and ask her what she was dreaming of. He just sat there, watching her sleep for as long as he could, his time of departure had come and gone as each minute ticked away, until finally he was ready. He brushed a piece of hair from her face and pressed a light kiss to her lips. 

Before he left, he placed the letter for her on her nightstand. He lingered at the doorway, casting one last glance at her, before shutting the door behind him. 

\---

If ever asked, Scully would say she thought she had years until she had to experience this again. That she thought she would be old and gray before having to consider inquiring about gravesites and headstones for her significant other. She never thought she would have to once again wonder how she was going to explain to their son that his father might not be coming back, that he’d chosen his fate decades ago, and, like a derailed freight train, there was simply no stopping the destruction that follows.

She knows this grief well, and shrugs it on like a ratty old jacket that hangs in the back of her closet; slipping her arms into the sleeves of anguish, adjusting the scratchy band of desolation along the sides of her neck. The weight of it feels familiar as she settles into it, and she offers a prayer of thanks to God for not being with child this time. The jacket is less snug, but just as overwhelming. 

With a groan, Scully finally drags herself out of bed, feeling only slightly better as she pulls on a clean pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. She avoids her reflection in the mirror, not quite ready to see this version of herself again, instead eyeing the landscape outside of her bedroom window. The sun shines brightly across the fields now that the storm has finally subsided, but chilly air is left in its wake. 

“Hey, Scully,” she remembers Mulder saying weeks ago, “according to the Farmer’s Almanac, we’re due for an early autumn.” His voice carries through her consciousness, and the skin around her eyes burns at the simple thought of more tears. She turns away from the window with the intention of crossing to the door. 

The smell of him still lingers, emanating from their sheets and his pillow, and it stops her in her tracks. Her eyes seem to close of their own will, and she allows herself the indulgence in pretending he’s still there. The skin of her lower back prickles beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, and for a moment it’s as if he’s standing behind her. 

“Hey, Scully,” she can almost hear him say, almost feel his breath on her cheek. “Did you know that autumn is often associated with melancholia, especially in poetry?”

“Is that so?” she whispers to her empty bedroom. She inhales sharply, as if waking suddenly from a dream, and pushes herself towards the door, it snicking closed softly behind her. The floorboards creak and groan under the padding of her feet as she makes her way through the hallway and down the stairs, betraying her lame attempt at a ghostlike maneuvering through her own home. 

“Hey, Scully, did I ever tell you that your hair always reminded me of autumn?” she hears him ask as she passes through the living room, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Vibrant and beautiful.”

“Hey, Scully,” she thinks she hears him whisper just before she enters the kitchen. 

“Morning,” John says, his voice unusually loud in the small room. Scully stops in the doorway, staring at the two men who sit at the table. “I, uh, I finished the coffee,” John adds, “but there’s a fresh pot brewing. Should be ready in a couple of minutes.”

William shudders as she passes him, feeling all energy evaporate from the room. It’s as if she’s a black hole, the gravitational pull of her emptiness so strong that not even a glimmer of hope could survive. His knuckles fade to white as he grips the edge of the table, bracing himself as a wave of exhaustion courses through him. Through heavy lids he watches as she stares at the coffee pot, frozen, her face void of any emotion. 

“Dana?” John asks. 

Scully turns and looks at them for a moment, then turns on her heels and walks out the front door.

\---

SPARTANVILLE, NC

Skinner releases a low whistle as they pull up in front of the house and he throws the SUV in park. A wrought iron gate sits wide open, as if welcoming guests with open arms and promises of endless flutes of champagne. The spear points of the connected fence stand pointedly against the dense foliage backdrop, like soldiers standing guard before a castle. “This is it?”

Monica leans forward between the front seats. “What were you expecting?”

Skinner squints, examining what bits of the house are visible through the trees. “The word discreet comes to mind.”

“Spender is anything but discreet,” Mulder responds as he checks the clip in his pistol and tucks it back into the holster on his hip. 

“Take the next driveway,” Monica says pointing ahead of them. “I’d park about a hundred feet from the house, and leave the engine running.”

Skinner makes the turn and eases the SUV down the narrow drive. Mature trees stand tall along either side, lining their way to the house that sits a few hundred feet back. 

“This is good here,” Monica says once the entire house is within full view, and reaches for the door handle. 

Mulder rests his palm on the dashboard as he leans forward in his seat. The house stands bolder in daylight than what he remembers of it during his last visit. Well-manicured shrubbery trails along the walkway’s edge and the lawn appears freshly mowed, the landscaping still in pristine condition as if the groundskeeper had just collected his day's wages minutes before their arrival. The exterior of the house bears a striking resemblance to the world ‘before,’ void of any military markings or vandalism, caught in a span of time that no longer exists. The only difference, Mulder thinks, is the lack of armed men standing at every corner. 

“Where is everyone?” Skinner asks, and Monica pauses, her fingers still gripping the handle. 

“Like I said last night,” she replies, her eyes sweeping the front yard, “light security.”

The three of them exit the car, and rendezvous at the idling engine. They each draw their weapons and check their clips for the third time since leaving the house, preparing themselves for whatever is to come, and Skinner shoulders an empty duffel bag. After a look shared between the three of them, Monica takes point and leads them towards the house. 

As they round the curve of the driveway, two black sedans come into view. Monica throws her hand up, and Skinner and Mulder pause behind her. Once no movement is detected, she drops her hand and continues towards the house. Mulder veers from the path and jogs to the closest sedan. 

“Mulder,” Skinner hisses.

“Apparently we still have company,” Mulder says as he pulls the handle of the drivers side door and finds it unlocked. He leans in and flips the visor, a pair of keys fall onto the seat. 

“Let’s go,” Skinner says, and Mulder falls back in line.

“Ok, Mulder, remember,” Monica whispers as they climb the front steps to the house. “You’re going west through the front, Skinner and I will swing around back and enter through the servants’ quarters.”

“And we meet back here in fifteen minutes,” Skinner adds.

Mulder reaches for the doorknob, and pauses. “If I’m not back here, you leave without me.”

Monica shakes her head. “That wasn’t part of the plan.” 

“Now isn’t the time for games, Mulder,” Skinner says. 

“Fifteen minutes, tops. We have no idea what’s going to happen once we get inside, who is going to be waiting for us,” Mulder explains.

Skinner grabs Mulder’s arm. “You’re crazier than I thought if you think I’m leaving you behind.”

“If shit hits the fan and I’m not here, you leave,” Mulder says. “I’ll take one of the sedans and meet you back at the house.”

“Mulder, no,” Monica whispers, and takes a step towards him. “We arrive together, we leave together. That’s what we said.”

Mulder turns the knob and inches the door open. “We don’t have time to fight about this. Just get in there, gather what you can, and get the fuck out.” 

Skinner calls Mulder’s name, but it falls on deaf ears as Mulder enters the house and closes the door behind them. 

“Come on,” Monica says. “We don’t have much time.”

Skinner shifts the duffel on his shoulder, and stares at the closed door for one last moment, then turns and follows Monica without another word.

\---

The understated foyer opens to a cavernous living room, where elaborate paintings are interspersed across the stained wooden walls and the cathedral ceiling soars high above the expensive looking furnishings. Mulder steps quietly across an intricately woven rug that lay spread across the floor, his eyes focused on the set of double doors at the opposite end of the room. Doors that lead to another door, that lead to his fate. 

Twenty-two more steps.

His footfall doesn’t make a sound as he crosses the room, and his hand is steady as he runs his palm down the smooth surface, the door sliding along its track into the wall, granting him silent access to an intimate sitting space. Overstuffed chairs are positioned for conversation, their leather stretched taut over each curve and plane. A gigantic painting hangs behind them, the strokes of oil depicting a group of cavemen wielding spears surrounding a behemoth mastodon, capturing a scene commemorating the last extinction and hung proudly. 

Nine more steps.

He finds himself wondering what Spender was planning to display in celebration of the sixth extinction as his eyes scan the room. Mulder’s gaze falls on a man with his back turned, the familiar bulge of a weapon sits beneath his suit jacket and a crystal decanter tinkles against the rapidly filling glass in his hand. Without another thought, Mulder pads across the room and firmly grips the man’s skull. The man barely has time to gasp in surprise before Mulder jerks his head to the side, and the man crumbles into a slump on the carpet, the decanter and glass falling with a muffled thump beside him. 

Mulder pushes back the thought that his maneuver bears a striking resemblance to a supersoldier. With a shake of his head, he also pushes back the disappointment he’s sure Scully would express in taking life when he’s there to save it, and steps over the man who lay lifeless. 

Four more steps. 

The last time he was here he was a dead man walking, anthrax coursing through his body, the spores activated and spreading bacteria with each step he took. His immune system didn’t stand a chance. Rejecting Spender’s offer had effectively sealed his fate, until his son…

William. 

Mulder feels the corners of his mouth tweak at the thought of him, and a sense of peace rushes over him. Such a strong young man, with his mother’s intellect and his own dry sense of humor. The miracle child he wasn’t aware that he’d even wanted, until he had held him in his arms for the first time. Mulder’s biceps twitch at the memory of holding an infant William, of looking into his young son’s eyes and thinking *I’m your dad.* 

In that moment, he swore that the protection of his son would know no bounds, that he would give his own life to ensure that he was safe if need be. He wonders if this is Scully’s God calling his bluff. Time seems to slow as he takes the final step, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stands just outside the final destination of this lifelong journey.

Maybe in another time, another world, he would have been a good father, he thinks to himself as he opens the door to assassinate his own. 

“Mulder?”

\---

Skinner follows the concrete walkway around the back of the house, stepping cautiously so not to alert anyone of their arrival. Monica follows closely behind, her weapon low at her hip.

“We’re gonna go through that back door and hang a right,” Monica says, pointing her finger towards a set of white french doors that stand stark against the dark brick. Interior curtains cover the windows, preventing them from seeing inside, or anyone beyond that door from seeing out. 

“Where will that lead us?” Skinner asks.

“It’s the back entrance to the kitchen,” she whispers, as they enter the house. She steps forward next to Skinner once they have crossed over the threshold, taking a defensive stance against whomever might be waiting. 

“Clear,” Skinner whispers as his gaze spans across the kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleam under the sunlight that filters through the windows, and a hint of bleach lingers in the air. 

Monica pushes past him, “The basement is over here.”

She leads him through the door and down the narrow wooden stairway, sliding their backs along the wall, restricting their footfall to the far edges of each step. Once at the bottom, Skinner follows as she turns left, and they enter into a large room with concrete walls. Multiple fluorescent bulbs hang above them; the light they cast is harsh over the six hospital beds that line the back wall. IV poles sit positioned at the head of each bed, tucked against freshly painted white walls.

“It looks like a hospital down here,” Skinner says, lowering his weapon. 

Monica ignores him and continues towards a door located at the back of the room. 

“Monica,” he calls, and she turns towards him. “Why is there a hospital set up in the basement?”

“Don’t ask questions when you don’t want the answer,” she responds. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Skinner quickly follows her, intending to ask the question again, but falters once he gets to the door. A name plate nailed to the door catches his eye, answering his question. 

Dr. Goldman

“He’s bringing them here,” Skinner says as he enters the room. “The kids.”

Black filing cabinets line the walls of the office ending at three refrigerators that sit across from the desk. Dr. Goldman’s office is meticulously organized with nothing out of place, with even his cup of pencils sharpened to a perfect point. 

“William is the first,” Monica says as she rifles through the first refrigerator. Test tubes and glass vials clink against each other as she pushes them off to the side. “Get his files. It should be alphabetical.”

Skinner drops his duffel to the floor, and begins pulling drawers open. 

“They’re empty,” he says as a fresh coat of sweat prickles down his back. A surge of panic jolts through him as drawer after drawer is bare, their mission to rid Spender and his cohorts of any information regarding William possibly futile. 

Monica pauses what she’s doing, looking over at him with wide eyes. “Check all of them, check his desk. William’s file is here somewhere, and we need it to not be in The Project’s possession.”

“I know that,” he huffs, then sighs as he pulls open the bottom two drawers of the last cabinet. Front to back, each drawer is packed full of hanging dividers, each divider stuffed full of files. He thumbs through each folder, pulling out loose sheets of medical files, progress reports, and X-rays. “All these names- it’s not just William they’re after? There are other children?” 

“There will be,” Monica says as she shuts the door to the refrigerator and moves onto the next one. “But it all starts with William, he’s their insurance plan.”

Skinner finally finds a manilla file labeled W, Mulder, and drops it on top of the rest, opening it. A recent picture of William smiles back at him from the top of the paperwork, and he gasps, feeling as if the air has been sucked from his lungs. “They knew.”

Monica tucks a handful of glass vials into her pocket, saying nothing. 

Skinner lifts the picture in the air and points to it. “They’ve known where he was this entire time, Monica.” 

Monica rushes next to him, closes the file, and shoves it into the duffel bag. “Of course they did!”

Skinner stares at her wide eyed. “Why didn’t they go after him before? All this time-”

“They didn’t need him until *now*, Skinner,” Monica responds, and shoves the bag into his arms. “Hurry, we gotta move. Just because we didn’t see anyone upstairs doesn’t mean we’re alone. There’s cameras everywhere.”

“You could have mentioned that earlier,” Skinner replies dryly, as he drops the bag to the floor and squats next to it.

Monica grabs his arm. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs her off and starts pulling file after file, packing whatever he can into the duffel. “I’m not going to let this happen to any other kids. We aren’t just ending this for William, we’re saving all of them.”

\---

Emotional numbness has the tendency to get a bad reputation, and as Scully sits alone on the steps of the porch watching the morning unfold, she can’t figure out why. It feels as if someone has injected a shot of Novocaine into her mind, dulling her erratic senses into absolutely nothing. She would smile if she felt like she was able to. 

Scully doesn’t flinch when the screen door smacks shut behind her, instead focusing her eyes on the treeline that seems to stretch for hundreds of acres. She doesn’t budge when she hears the footfall of boots cross the porch in her direction. She doesn’t say anything as John sits next to her on the steps and pushes a cup of coffee into her hands.

“Guess they got an early start,” John says as he tips his chin to the empty driveway. “Didn’t even hear them leave.” 

Scully brings the mug to her lips, inhaling the scent of the coffee before taking a sip. 

“Dana, look,” John says after a moment. “I know I said this last night, but I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest with you from the beginning.”

Scully continues to stare forward, but nods. 

“I had good intentions, believe it or not,” he adds. “If I had known that you met with Monica, that you knew more of the truth, I would have just told you everything from the get-go. I guess, uh, even after all these years, after everything she did, I was still just trying to protect her.”

“I know, John,” she says, her voice muffled behind the rim of the mug. Lying to protect the one you love comes easy, she thinks. Too easy. There had been countless times that she willingly misled their superiors for the sake of Mulder, for the sake of his safety. She takes another sip of her coffee and thinks to herself that she would do it again if given the chance. 

“Papa, sorry to interrupt, but the pump is making a weird noise,” William says as he peeks his head out the screen door. “Like a chugging.”

John groans as he pulls himself to his feet. “Might be the generator gettin’ low on fuel. Not enough power to the pump. I’ll check it out.”

William holds the door for John as he passes through, then eases it shut before taking John’s place on the steps. His eyes span the vast acreage before them, still surprised by the beauty before him. The rain washed away the ash that fell like snow the night before, rinsing the foliage of its bleak white and gray to its original lush, vibrant colors. 

“Turned out to be a pretty nice day today,” he says. “Wasn’t sure we would see much sun with that storm that rolled in this morning.”

Scully hums in response and places her mug on the step next to her feet.

William runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, scratching the nagging itch he feels to tell her about the meeting he had with Mulder just hours earlier. The sun wasn’t even up yet when he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, and ran into Mulder in the hallway. 

“Woah, sorry about that,” Mulder had said when he placed his hands on William’s shoulders, steadying him. 

William remembers looking up to him then, locking eyes with his father as they both stood in silence for a few moments, trying to figure out what to say. He still had so many questions, and so many things he wanted to tell him, but all he could get out was, “You’re leaving.”

Mulder nodded and dropped his hands to his sides. 

“Look,” Mulder said after glancing towards the bedroom he shared with Scully. “Take care of your mom for me, okay?” 

William wanted to ask for how long, but he nodded instead. Mulder pulled him in for an awkward hug and patted his back. Before William’s brain could comprehend what was happening, it was over. Mulder stepped around him, and walked down the hall, leaving William to stand there, alone. 

“Hey, Will,” he heard Mulder call, and he turned to look at him. Mulder smiled. “I’m proud of you, son.”

He returned the smile, and Mulder disappeared down the stairs. 

On the stairs to the porch, William shuffles his shoes along the step, scuffing his heel against a chip in the wood as if chipping the memory apart with his rubber sole and nudging it off to the side. The emptiness that he feels in her stands firm like a steel plated barricade, protecting him from getting in and her emotions from getting out. “I was playing with the pup earlier, but I think I wore him out,” he says finally. “He’s snoring on the couch. I tried to wake him, but he just rolled on his back and passed back out when I rubbed his belly.”

“Daggoo needs the exercise,” she says and almost smiles. “You’re good for him.”

“I can focus better when he’s around. He reminds me that everything can be simple. Eat, play, poop, sleep. Simple.”

Scully smiles, and William feels the barricade within her weaken.

“Who makes everything simple for you?” he asks.

Scully’s voice catches in her throat and her smile fades. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she sighs. “I don’t know that my life has ever been simple, William. No matter who was in it.” 

William leans back onto the stairs and stretches his legs out. “What about when you were a kid? Like, my age? It had to be then.”

“Not when raised in a military family,” she replies. “My mom… she did the best she could with what she had.”

“A grandma?” William’s eyebrows rise and a smile spreads across his face as he ignores the clench in his chest. “When will I get to see her?”

Scully reaches down and grabs her mug of coffee, gripping it in her fingers. “I’m afraid you won’t. Your grandmother passed away a few weeks ago.”

William shifts his eyes away, realizing suddenly that the tightening around his heart is grief. The loss of someone. The emotions that were locked deep inside of her break free, tears burn his eyes as her emotional barricade bursts open and he gasps, struggling not to drown in her heartache. He breathes slow and deep, thankful that she stares ahead as he struggles to gain control of his own emotions. “Can you, um,” he starts, but his voice sounds small to his own ears. He clears his throat. “Can you tell me about her?”

“She was-” she starts, then sighs. “My mom was everything you could want in a mother. Warm and comforting, but strong. Easy to talk to, and the best secret keeper.”

The sorrow seeps off of her like traces of day old perfume, but pungent enough that if William breathes it in he can taste its bittersweetness sticking to the back of his tongue. The muscles in his arms twitch with the urge to hug his mother, to wrap his arms around her and assure her that everything is going to be okay, but he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees instead. “You miss her.”

“Terribly,” she says. “I miss her everyday.”

“I wish I could have known her.”

“She loved you so much,” Scully whispers, as if it’s a secret meant for just the two of them. “Your grandma was the only one who could get you to quiet down when you were teething, and she was the one who gave you your first bath. You might not remember her, William, but she knew you.”

William smiles. “Well, I wish she was still around so she could tell me who I am now.”

“What do you mean?” Scully asks, turning to face him with furrowed brows.

“Nothing,” he replies. “It was stupid, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Hey,” she says, her voice as soft as the touch of her hand on his arm. “It’s ok to be confused, William. God knows with everything you’ve been through, if you weren’t confused then I might be concerned.”

“I just feel like I’ve struggled with this for so long now, this feeling of...I don’t know, of not belonging, I guess?” He shrugs. “I was so sure that once I met you guys that everything would kind of just fall into place, and everything would make sense. But now it feels like with every answer I get, I have two more questions.”

“I understand that,” Scully says.

“You do?”

“More than you know, William,” Scully says with a chuckle. “But I don’t think that you need me or Mulder to tell you who you are.”

“When you’ve spent your entire life hiding, being told that it’s for the best because, while your abilities are miraculous, they could be used for evil… I don’t know how not to question which one I am.”

Scully chews on her bottom lip for a moment, processing her son’s words and wishing now more than ever that Mulder was here. “A few years ago, I had a sort of identity crisis. We had been on the run for two or three years, in and out of motels, and had blown through so many aliases that I was losing touch with who *we* were. Were we Jim and Karen from Milwaukee? Bob and Francine from New Jersey? We had taken on so many different personalities at that point, that I had begun to forget why we were even running in the first place.”

William turns to her, and watches her profile as she continues her story.

“One night, it was late, it was my turn to drive, and I was exhausted. I was driving too fast over the speed limit, and when I saw the red and blue flashing lights behind me, I panicked. Even after slipping up and giving the officer the wrong alias, he still let me go with a warning. Mulder always said that I had a lead foot,” she adds with a smile. “We barely made it into the hotel room twenty miles down the road before I broke down and cried. I confessed to him that I felt lost, and I wasn’t entirely sure which side we were on anymore.”

Williams eyes grow large. “What did he say?”

“Once I calmed down, he told me a story about an old Cherokee that was teaching his grandson about life. ‘A fight is going on inside of me,’ he said to the boy. ‘It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, inferiority, regret, false pride, and ego.’ 

“He continued to say, ‘the other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, humility and kindness, empathy and compassion. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too.’ The grandson then asked his grandfather, ‘which wolf will win?’ And the old Cherokee simply replied, ‘the one you feed.’”

After a long moment William grasps Scully’s hand and holds it tight. “I choose good.”

A smile spreads across Scully’s face as she squeezes her son’s fingers. “I did too.”

\---

“Mulder?” 

Mulder can’t wipe the smirk from his face at the genuine surprise that is spread across Spender’s when he walks into the room. The old man sits alone in his office, positioned in his chair just like their last visit. The cigarette he holds tumbles into an ashtray that sits off to the side, and a plume of smoke wafts from the hole in his throat. 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Mulder says, using Spender’s own words against him. 

“Not at all,” Spender says. “I see Miss Scully’s doctoral skills are still unparallelled. I’ve heard, after all, that anthrax can be quite brutal.” 

“And I see that you’re alone here in your kingdom,” Mulder says as he crosses the room to stand directly in front of Spender. “Just can’t find good help anywhere these days.”

Spender’s eyes narrow, then he lifts his hands in the air in a lame attempt at a shrug. “To be expected with the fall of mankind.”

“Couldn’t even spare a supersoldier or two?”

“The elimination process was even more successful than we had anticipated,” Spender says with bright eyes. “Speaking of Miss Scully…”

Mulder purses his lips and turns away, fighting the urge to inform him that the summoning was unsuccessful. The less he knows, the less power he has, Mulder thinks as Spender smirks and continues. 

“Try not to dwell over the loss, Mulder. A great loss for The Project, certainly, but I have faith that you will move on.” Spender pauses momentarily to reach into his pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes. “The Abductee Program was a failed experiment that went on for too long, if you ask me. But as one project ends, a new one begins. One with a much higher probability of success.”

“What new project?” Mulder asks, glaring at Spender.

“Ah, such information you would have, had you accepted my offer. Do I need to remind you of your adamant rejection a few nights ago? Or have you reconsidered?” 

Mulder forces a smile. “Let’s just say you’ve piqued my interest.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Spender warns as he struggles to light his cigarette. Once the tip of it glows orange, he inserts the butt into the tip of his tracheostomy tube and inhales deeply. “The events of 2012 didn’t occur because the alien race withdrew from the agreement on the grounds that humans have destroyed the earth. There’s only a few hundred years left, a few thousand if we’re lucky, much thanks to global warming, the usage of oil, pollution, and so on.”

Mulder lowers himself and sits on the coffee table just a few feet in front of Spender, his pistol still in his hands, as he continues. 

“We kept that to ourselves, of course, and continued on with the plan for colonization. The stakes were too great and there was far too much to lose if the truth came out.”

“You lied,” Mulder says, his eyes narrowing at the man before him. “For what? Money?”

Spender laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was never about money, Mulder. We lied for power.”

“Power over what? Over whom?”

“The world. And with the plan already years underway, we had the perfect scapegoat.”

Mulder nods, suddenly understanding. “The aliens. This entire time we’ve blamed the abductions, the tests, the black oil, all of it on the aliens, but it’s been you. It’s always been you.”

Spender smiles and flicks his cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Precisely, although I suppose they should receive some of the credit. It was their technology, after all, that made all of that possible. In fact, it’s their technology that is the driving force behind the new Project as well.”

Mulder leans forward and runs his free hand down his face. 

“Which leads me to a question,” Spender adds. He brings the cigarette to his throat and takes a long drag, holding it in his lungs for an extra moment before releasing it. The smile that spreads across his face appears sinister behind the cloak of gray smoke that rolls and curls in front of his face. “How is my dear grandson?”

\---

Skinner follows closely as Monica leads him up the basement stairway, his weapon readied by the side of his face as she inches forward on the balls of her feet, step by step. She grips the doorknob, then pauses and looks at Skinner. He nods, and she eases it open.

“Who the hell- stop right there!” a voice from the kitchen booms just as they cross the threshold. Two men stand in front of the french doors, assault rifles pointed directly at them.

Skinner turns immediately and shoots twice, but misses. “Get down!” he yells at Monica.

Monica ducks and throws herself behind the island, landing hard against the tile flooring as shots rain around them. She pulls herself to her hands and knees, and crawls around to the other side, peaking around the corner. A shot rings in the air, the bullet chipping the wooden cupboard just inches from her face, and she recoils. 

Skinner comes to a skidding halt right behind her, his knee and hip thumping into the side of the island. Monica turns to him and points in the direction of another door. He nods, then gets to his knees and turns, resting his arms on the surface of the island to steady his aim and shoots twice more. Monica runs, her knees shaking with each step as she races across the kitchen and through the door. 

Skinner fires one more round, piercing the gut of one of the suited men, taking him down. The other man turns and flees out of the french doors, leaving them wide open in his wake. Gunfire rings from an adjoining room, shot after shot, followed by a female scream. Skinner turns on his heels and rushes through the opposite door. 

He enters the living room to see another man in a suit a few feet away, assault rifle pointed directly at him. The second Skinner aims his weapon, a bullet whizzes by his ear. Skinner fires, his shot penetrating the man’s leg. Blood splatters across the wall and floor just before he disappears around a corner. 

“Monica!” Skinner yells. 

A hand lifts from the back of the couch, and her strained voice calls, “Over here.”

Skinner rushes around the furniture and finds Monica propped up against the couch, clutching her thigh. Blood stains her jeans, oozing between her fingers.

“You ok?” he asks.

“Behind you!” she screams.

Skinner turns on his heels and fires, but the shooter spins and lunges, disappearing again behind the corner. 

\---

Mulder’s heartbeat thumps in his ears at the mention of William, and his hand clenches, squeezing the butt of his pistol.

“You didn’t come alone,” Spender says as the sound of rapid gunfire rings in the air. 

Mulder narrows his eyes at the old man, ignoring the chaos that takes place just beyond the door, ignoring the fleeting concern for his friends’ welfares. “Why William?” 

“Dim doesn’t suit you, Mulder,” Spender says with a short sigh. “After all of this time and your quest for the truth, you must know why.”

Mulder’s jaw clenches. “Enlighten me, anyway.”

“Special doesn’t even begin to describe your son. He’s the first of his kind to have been created naturally, and the experiments that were run using his DNA were of the utmost importance. In our trials, we found-”

“What?” Mulder asks. “That he can cure cancer?”

“And then some,” Spender answers excitedly. “Your’s and Dana Scully’s son has the ability to cure every ailment known to mankind. Cancer, HIV, the Ebola Virus, the Trojan Virus. Your son is the answer to the world’s futile prayers.”

Mulder shakes his head. “These experiments were run over ten years ago. You’ve had this...miracle cure-all this time-”

“We couldn’t let it go public. You can’t even begin to imagine the power you feel holding that vaccine, clutching the lives of the world in the palm of your hand.” He chuckles to himself then adds, “Quite literally.”

“What’s the point? You kill off ninety percent of the human population, and there won’t be anyone left for you to control.”

“But those who survive are of my choosing, and are already on the path to perfection, in my image. Consider all that has been lost, the advances made for the remaining ten percent,” Spender insists. “It’s nearly romantic when you think about it, the sacrifices I’ve made for them.”

Mulder’s finger twitches against the side of his pistol, inching closer to the trigger as he barks out a laugh. “Sacrifices that *you’ve* made?”

Spender opens his mouth to interrupt, his defense at the tip of his tongue, but Mulder continues, his voice rising with each word.

“My son, the woman I love, my life. You’ve taken everything from me, you self-serving sonofabitch. Everything that’s meant anything to me is gone because of you,” Mulder yells as he storms across the few feet that separate them and pushes the barrel of his gun into the center of Spender’s forehead. His voice drops an octave, his words dangerously calm as he adds, “Those weren’t your sacrifices to make.”

“He’s still yours,” Spender utters, and for the first time in his life, Mulder thinks he hears desperation in his voice. “The paperwork was falsified. The adoption- it never went through. I saw to that, Fox. William is still your son because of me.”

Mulder stares into the smokey grey of Spender’s eyes, looking past the trepidation and sees his father Bill Mulder, and his sister Samantha. He sees Scully standing in the kitchen hugging their son, and him hugging her back. He sees his son’s face, bright with a smile that spreads from ear to ear. His son. 

He exhales a sense of peace and finality, and pulls the trigger. 

Mulder watches as Spender’s pupils dilate as his last breath escapes the hole in his throat, his chest deflating and falling still. The expected feeling of relief is absent as he palms the lighter from the side table and crosses to the windows. Instead, he feels resolution as the flame from the lighter catches the drapes, spreading wildly across the thick fabric. 

Mulder again seats himself on the coffee table and puts his face in his hands, his deep-seated pyrophobia seared to a crisp as the blaze climbs up the walls, burning away evil with each lick of every flame. 

\----

Skinner wipes at the sweat that beads along his brow with the back of his hand, his gun still trained in the direction of the shooter. 

“Get out of here,” Monica says through clenched teeth. 

Skinner steadies his aim and fires a shot at the wall. He takes a deep breath, which is long enough for the man to peek around the corner, and Skinner shoots again. The man falls, his head spilling blood around him like a crimson halo.

He rushes to Monica and squats beside her, holstering his gun and immediately placing his hand over hers that covers her wound. “Monica, let me see it.”

“It’s fine- ah, fuck!” she grunts as she lifts her hand. 

“No way in hell am I leaving you here.”

“Go find Mulder, Skinner,” she insists. “Save him, save the kids.”

Skinner grunts, ignoring her yelps of protest and pain as he hoists her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He leans down, sweeping his arms through the handles of the bag, and takes a few steps. It takes only a few moments for warmth to seep through his shirt, her wound bleeding through the thin fabric. He squeezes her tighter. 

Smoke billows from around a set of doors behind them, circling and gathering densely along the high ceiling. Flames flicker underneath the doors, licking up the length of the wood and spreading to the drapes that hang nearby, almost instantly engulfing the thick fabric. Skinner pauses, momentarily amazed by the view of the living room as it rapidly becomes flooded with heavy black smoke and bright orange flames. The cough he feels wrack through Monica brings him to his senses. “Mulder!”

Monica coughs again, her hands gripping at his torso. Skinner spins on his heels and rushes through the foyer, then out the front door. The front yard is quiet, its calmness offering a sense of security almost immediately. Once he’s convinced they’re far enough away from the house, he eases Monica down on the grass. 

“A car... is missing,” she states through her coughing fit. 

Skinner glances towards where the two sedans were parked, and notes that indeed, one is gone. He turns his attention to Monica, and removes his belt.

“Mulder?” she asks, then yelps as Skinner wraps his belt above her wound, and tightens it. 

“I don’t think the bullet hit your femoral artery,” he says, his voice gruff from the smoke inhalation. “You’d be bleeding more if it did.”

“Skinner-”

“That’s a good thing,” he insists. “The major cities are still shut down, and we don’t have access to a doctor, let alone a hospital.”

“Skinner,” she says again, and grabs his arm to get his attention. “Do you think it was Mulder who took the car?”

“Not sure,” Skinner says with a shake of his head, then glances at his watch. Three minutes left until departure time.

“We’re gonna wait for him right?” Monica asks, then hisses in pain. “Just in case.”

Behind them, windows shatter, startling them both. Flames sweep out from the empty window frames with clouds of smoke rolling out along the edges, rising up the brick facade.

“Oh my God, it’s spreading,” Skinner says.

“The kitchen,” Monica says suddenly. She digs her fingers into the grass and starts to scramble backwards, further from the house. “The appliances are gas.”

Skinner jerks the duffel to his shoulder, then grips Monica’s arm and pulls her to her feet. “We gotta go.”

She winces, stifling a whine, as she struggles to hobble alongside Skinner towards the SUV, allowing her foot to drag when he picks up the pace the closer they get. She opens the back door and tumbles inside, pulling the duffel in with her, and Skinner hurries to the driver’s seat. 

Skinner checks his watch. Two minutes.

“Come on, Mulder,” he hears uttered from the backseat. 

Skinner throws the SUV into reverse, his thigh twitching in anticipation as his foot shoves into the brake pedal. 

“Come on, Mulder,” he parrots, his eyes scanning the burning house.

“Maybe it *was* him that took the car-”

The fire reaches the kitchen and the explosion rocks the SUV. Skinner and Monica recoil, the force of the blast throwing a wave of heat and debris across the front yard with bits of brick and wood pelting the hood. 

Skinner jerks the SUV in park and throws open his door.

“Where are you going?” Monica screams.

“I’m going back in-”

“Skinner, no-”

“Shit!” Skinner yells as he slams his fist against the steering wheel. His chest heaves as he stares at the house, unable to take his eyes off of it. He feels Monica’s hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge her. 

“He left in the sedan and got a head start,” she whispers. “He’ll beat us to the house.”

He ignores the compassionate tone of her voice, her soft touch. Ignores the burning in his chest, and the taste of charcoal in the back of his throat. Because if Mulder didn’t leave, he thinks, there’s no way he could have survived that blast.

After one last punch of his fist to the steering wheel, Skinner rubs his hands across his face, smearing the mixture of soot and sweat across his skin. “Let’s get you to Scully,” he says finally, and throws the SUV in reverse. 

\---

At the crunching sound of wheels on gravel, Scully rushes out of the front door with William on her heels to see their black SUV speeding up the driveway. They both stop at the bottom of the stairs, squinting to shield their eyes from the dust cloud that races towards them as the vehicle jerks into park. Skinner throws open the driver’s side door and rushes to the back, pulling Monica from the seat. 

Scully’s heart begins to race as she watches the scene unfold before her. She grips the wooden railing next to her, feeling the splinters prick at the soft skin under her nails as she waits for Mulder to exit the passenger side. 

“She’s been shot,” Skinner calls to Scully, with Monica tucked into his arm. “It’s through and through, but I think you should look at it,” he continues, but Scully hears nothing. Time seems to slow and the dust settles, finally allowing her to see across the driveway and into the empty SUV, to begin to register that there is no one left to emerge. Three has become two. 

Two-by-two, she reminds herself and inhales sharply through her nose, then coughs as a gust of wind blows past carrying a familiar musky stench. The snakes slithering below, the coarse rope burning the palm of her hand, the snapping of each thread. Her nightmare lurks in the back of her mind as she keeps her eyes trained on the SUV, unable to look away. 

Monica yelps in pain as Skinner helps her to sit on the stairs, and William side-steps behind Scully to get out of the way. 

“Hey, you’re back-” John hollers with a smile as he rushes from around the side of the house, jogging towards the porch. His smile fades as he closes the distance. “Shit, Mon, are you ok?” 

Monica swats John’s hand aside after he kneels next to her. “Don’t touch it,” she hisses.

“You were shot,” he says, looking at her incredulously. “Dana, she’s been shot.”

With a mask of exhaustion hiding her desperation, Scully turns to Skinner. “Where’s Mulder?”

“He’s not here?” Skinner asks as he glances around, searching for the missing black sedan. His stomach begins to churn, the sour taste of guilt rising in the back of his throat. 

John stands and pulls at Skinner’s arm, forcing him to look at him. “You left him there?”

“No!” Monica says. “We thought he left! The car was missing, and the fire was spreading too quickly-”

“The fire?” Scully asks. 

“The explosion was too powerful for us to go back in-” Skinner starts.

“What explosion?” Scully asks.

“We barely made it out ourselves, but the sedan was gone by the time we got out,” Monica explains. 

Scully passes a wary glance at Monica, unsure of who she’s trying to convince: Scully or herself. “You know for a fact that he left in this car?” she asks.

Monica stares at her as she chews her bottom lip, the wrinkle between her eyebrows deepening with each moment that passes. 

“Mulder should have beat us here,” Skinner reiterates. “He’s supposed to be *here*.”

Scully closes her eyes. Choose me, she remembers begging him, pleading for him to stay. She staggers backwards on shaky knees as the pieces of her fears pull together to form a completed puzzle of disastrous reality. She doesn’t notice as William grips her arms and lowers her onto the stairs next to him. The words Mulder wrote her resound in her mind. *In order for a new beginning, there must come an ending first.* 

“Dana?” William asks.

Scully meets William’s blue eyes, bright and glistening with unshed tears. Their son on the verge of crying for a man he had barely known, a father who would sacrifice his own life for the sake of his child’s. She wants to tell William that he deserved better, that he was robbed of the chance to really know his father. She wants to explain that this ending was written long before he was conceived, that no matter what abilities they possessed, they were all powerless to stop it. But just as she opens her mouth to respond, William’s chin quivers and any words of comfort she has melts away, absorbing into the tip of her tongue. 

“He said he was proud of me,” William whispers. 

“Oh, William,” she says and her voice breaks. A tear streams down her cheek as she reaches up and cups his face between her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Could he have survived the explosion?” John asks. “I mean, come on, this is Mulder we’re talking about. The man has gone through a shit ton worse and lived to tell about it.”

The deafening silence and shifting of Monica and Skinner’s eyes scream the answer. 

“Shit!” John yells as he kicks the bottom stair. 

Skinner briskly rubs at his face. “I’m so sorry.” 

Scully wraps her arms around William and pulls him close, openly crying as she smothers her son’s hurt with a love that only a mother possesses. William’s arms squeeze around her middle as he buries his face into her shoulder, his own tears soaking the neck of her shirt. She presses a kiss to his temple, wondering briefly if being a highly empathic person is genetic as she feels waves of sorrow roll off of her son. She kisses him once more, attempting to absorb every ounce of grief that he emits. 

“He was so proud of you,” she whispers harshly into his hair, and hugs him tighter. “Out of every success that he and I share, you are our greatest accomplishment. Your father would want you to know that.”

John swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and clears his throat. He locks eyes with Skinner, then tilts his head towards the front door. Wordlessly, they lift Monica from the steps and help her inside of the house, leaving mother and son to mourn their loss privately.

“I was just getting to know him, ya know?” William mumbles, lifting his head. He sniffles and turns his face, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “I really thought this was the beginning. I just- I thought we had more time.”

Scully forces a weak smile and nods as she takes her son’s face in her hands. She and Mulder had side-stepped death many times before, oftentimes by the skin of their teeth, but this time the unseen force has won. Deep down, regardless of how hard she tried to deny it and how much she wanted to believe that Mulder would stay, she knew that this preordained ending to their story was to be. Mulder, she’s sure, knew it as well. Her thumbs graze the skin below William’s eyes, wiping the streaks of tears away. “I thought we had more time, too,” she lies. 

“You’ll still tell me about him, right?” William asks, his voice catching in his throat. “About the real him?”

Scully drops her hands into her lap and squeezes her eyes shut, begging the fresh round of tears that flood above her lashes to subside. “Of course I will.” Her whisper is as rough as sandpaper, filled with a sudden determination to nurture their father and son relationship, even in Mulder’s passing. 

“Thank you,” William says before reaching over and taking her hand, squeezing gently. He eases himself to his feet, then helps her stand. Their eyes lock, and a look of understanding passes between the two of them. William nods once, then turns and tugs at her hand. Scully sighs and takes the first step, reluctantly allowing her son to lead her into the house. 

“Dana,” John says, hustling across the living room to meet Scully at the front door. “I hate to ask you this right now, but it looks like Monica is gonna need some stitches.”

Scully feels herself nod, but can’t take her eyes off of Mulder’s chair just a few feet away. His books stacked haphazardly in front of the end table are covered in a fine layer of dust, and his water ring stain on the coffee table shines bright under the rays of sun that shine through the window. Her eyes flit around the room and her chin quivers; remnants of his presence are scattered everywhere throughout the house.

“Dana.” John’s voice is coarse but compassionate as it startles her out of her trance, and he puts his hand on her lower back.

Scully jerks away as if his touch has burned her, her eyes wide as her own hands guard the skin just above her jeans. “Don’t.”

“Sorry,” John hurries to say, his hands held in the air defensively. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- shit, that wasn’t...”

Scully peers around the room and sees Monica sitting in a kitchen chair, gripping its edges as Skinner dabs at the wound on her thigh with a square of clean gauze. “I’ll, uh,” Scully mumbles, turning on her heels, “I need to go get my medical bag.” 

“Is she ok?” she vaguely hears Skinner ask from behind her, but no one offers him an audible response. 

Her legs lift for each step of their own accord, the familiar emotional numbness metastasizing like cancer from her head to her torso, spreading throughout her limbs to the tips of her fingers and toes. She stumbles at the top of the stairs, and presses her hand against the wall to steady herself as she enters the hallway. Their bedroom door stands boldly at the end of the corridor, and she swallows a groan at the sight of it. 

Her steps slow to a glacial pace as she pushes herself to close the distance, dragging the burden of dread with her. She knows what’s waiting for her behind that door, and her burden triples in weight when she finally comes to stand before it. What’s left of them resides in there; their lovemaking, their arguing, their deep conversations haunting the small space like a phantom. Her hand grips the doorknob and she musters what traces of strength she has left and pushes the door open, then thrusts herself over the threshold.

His lingering scent knocks her back a step, punching her in the stomach and stealing the breath from her lungs. She gasps for air and drops to the side of the bed, her heart racing as she inhales the crisp smell of his deodorant, the traces of apple in his shampoo. She feels the urge to pray, but her mind falls blank after she thinks the words, Oh God. Her fingers grip the sheets beneath her as she forces herself to breathe. 

“Hey Scully,” she hears Mulder’s voice echo in the furthest reaches of her mind. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, concentrating on the feeling of her nails digging through the sheets, into her palms. Inhale. Hold the breath. Exhale.

“Remember,” his voice says.

Her heart rate begins to slow to a normal pace. She can survive this, she assures herself, repeating it over and over like a mantra. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale.

“Don’t give up,” he whispers. 

Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. 

“Mom?” 

At the sound of William’s voice, Scully opens her eyes. He stands in the doorway with her raised eyebrow and his father’s lopsided smile. 

“I just wanted you to know, your medical bag was in the kitchen,” he says, lifting it in the air to show her. “But take your time.”

The perfect blend of both of them, she thinks while staring at her son. The love she feels for him is like a life preserver, pulling her to the surface, saving her from drowning in a sea of her own sorrow. For their son, Mulder had chosen to give his life, and she chooses to live for him. 

Don’t give up.

The wind outside picks up, rushing across the house with a large whoosh, swirling any vegetation that’s caught in its path. Debris freckles across the house and the beams in the attic emit a whine under the sudden pressure, but neither pay it any attention. When Scully stands and crosses the room to her son, she doesn’t notice as the dust kicks up at the end of the driveway, encircling a limping figure at the end of the driveway. 

Instead, a smile tweaks at the corners of Scully’s lips, and she wipes her eyes. “I’m ready.”

\---

EPILOGUE

Two Months Later

Autumn leaves glow vibrantly under the rose and fuschia sky while the tall grass waves in a crisp breeze. Scully pulls her knees closer to her chest as a chill rushes over her skin, the soles of her shoes shuffling against the wooden slats of the porch swing, and she tucks the blanket around her legs. Her son sits in the grass a few yards ahead, his back turned to her as he hunches forward in deep concentration while John stands next to him, his hands planted easily on his hips. 

A smiles spreads across her face as she watches them, unable to believe that just four weeks earlier, they had received news from Agent Einstein that William’s anonymous DNA donation had aided the CDC in creating a generic vaccine for the Trojan Virus, and it was in the process of being shipped across the world. Two weeks after that, the news came that immunity was spreading. 

Now, two months after her son finding her in the middle of that bridge, she settles back in the swing with a sigh, wishing so desperately that the people she’s lost could witness the enormity of it. 

With a gentle swell of the breeze, she feels him standing there, his voice filtering through the sound of the rustling leaves, deep and raspy like she’s always known.

“Hey, Scully,” he speaks softly in her ear, “did I ever tell you that your hair always reminded me of autumn?” 

She closes her eyes with a hum, smiling at the sound. “Yes, actually, you have,” she replies with a turn of her head.

The screen door slaps shut after Mulder steps through it, his gait smooth as he crosses the porch, his limp having finally subsided. If she closes her eyes she can still see it, the way he’d staggered through the front door, his eyebrows furrowing with each step he took; she can still feel the wave of shock throughout her body when he’d greeted her with nothing more a ‘hey’. 

Even now, she shudders at the memory of the three hour ordeal of picking out all the shrapnel from the explosion that riddled his extremities, his left leg worst of all. She had held him that night, refusing to sleep out of the fear that if she closed her eyes, he would disappear from beneath her hands. She must have thanked God a hundred times that night. 

Mulder eases himself into the seat next to her and she lifts her legs, allowing him to scoot closer as she lays them on his lap. His hand runs the length of her shin, squeezing the tender muscles just above her knee. 

“Mulder,” she warns and jerks her leg. He chuckles, and reaches under the blanket. She takes his hand in hers, reveling in the fact that he’s warm, healthy, alive. 

“When are Skinner and Monica leaving?” Mulder asks.

“Her thigh is healing well, so I’d assume the next day or two.”

“They’ll find them,” Mulder says with a nod. 

Weeks earlier, Monica had sat down all of the adults of the house and confessed that she had swiped possibly pertinent information from Dr. Goldberg’s office. It was a reference sheet, a full page of contacts that Monica suspected to be involved in The Project, names and locations listed in alphabetical order. She had no idea if they had been able to survive the virus, but she had a plan of her own: extermination. 

It had only taken twenty minutes of bickering for everyone to agree to Skinner and Monica’s hunting them down. Much to Scully’s relief, John and Mulder both agreed to sit this mission out. 

“Hey,” Mulder says.

“Yeah?”

Mulder pulls her close, pressing his lips against hers. He feels her melt beneath his touch, beneath his kiss, and he’s sure that the universe was mistaken where his fate lay. His destiny was never to stop Spender, or save the human race; his destiny is the woman in his arms. 

“What was that for?” Scully asks once she breaks free.

“Just because,” he responds and kisses her again.

“Dad!”

“Ignore him,” Mulder mutters as Scully smiles against his lips.

“Dad!” William yells louder. “Quit kissing Mom and get down here. You’ve got the part we need!”

Scully chuckles and pushes him away. “Go on, help your son.”

Mulder plants a quick kiss to her temple before he stands and crosses the porch. He stops at the top of the stairs and turns, pointing at Scully. “Remember where we were at, that’s to be continued.”

The smile on Scully’s face widens, and Mulder descends the stairs. She watches as he jogs over to William and John, and hands them something from his pocket. The three of them stand in a half circle, chattering for a moment, fingers pointing at each person, before William points to himself. 

“We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do other things,” Mulder says as he hands William the lighter. “Not because they are easy, but because they are hard.”

Scully laughs to herself as John crosses his arms and nods in approval.

“JFK?” William asks.

“That’s the one,” Mulder says. 

A breeze rushes past her, and she pulls the blanket to her chin, watching as William squats next to the rocket and lights its fuse. Sparks fly almost immediately. The three of them step back a few feet, and John and Mulder rest a hand on both of William’s shoulders. Within seconds, she hears a large pop and the squeal of the rocket launching into the vibrant sky. 

Her family may be unconventional, she thinks as she watches their heads tilt back with their eyes lifted to the sky, but it is hers. 

 

The End


End file.
